Thanks for the Wings, Love Clarence
by Marzipan77
Summary: Episode Tag to "Silent Night." This case brought up a lot of 'what ifs' and 'might have beens' for Ned Quinn and Tony DiNozzo. When Tony's plans for a joyful "family" Christmas get derailed by yet another zinger from Gibbs, it might take a miracle to fix their dysfunctional family.
1. Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight

Chapter One

_**em"He who has not Christmas in his heart will not find it under a tree."/em**_

Snowfall. What was Christmas without snow, anyway? Even George Bailey, with his entire world falling to pieces around him knew that it should snow on Christmas. Tony shrugged deeper into his wool coat and held out one bare hand to let the feathery flakes touch down on his skin. Christmas should always be snowy. Cold. With grey skies and a hazy, blurred horizon. As if Someone was telling all of them to stop, to savor this day. That looking to the future could wait for just a little while.

Upstairs in MTAC he was sharing part of the DiNozzo Christmas Experience. 'It's a Wonderful Life' on the widescreen. Homemade caramel popcorn. While out here, another vital Christmas puzzle piece was taking care of itself. New York. Ohio. Illinois. Baltimore. And here in DC. A DiNozzo Christmas meant snow. Twinkling lights tucked into green fir branches didn't look right against any other backdrop.

Yes, the set dressing had been perfect for Ned Quinn's return to his family. The Great Director and Screenwriter in the Sky couldn't have arranged it better, not with all of the special effects stored in Spielberg's garage. The prodigal returns. Tony's breath bloomed before him in a cloud as he laughed. Wrong Bible story. This was 'no room at the inn' season, right? Yeah. He nodded. Except, this Christmas, the doors had been opened and the weary traveler had been welcomed with loving arms.

Strange. They hardly ever got storybook endings around here. He should be waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Tony glanced at his watch. He wanted to time this perfectly. George Bailey should be at the end of his rope right about now. Lost. Confused. And, finally, realizing that he might have made more of an impact on the little town of Bedford Falls than he ever knew. Pretty soon he'd look into the eyes of the woman who should be his wife, of his Mary, and see only fear there. Only might have beens. Only what ifs.

What ifs. This case had been full of them.

What if Ned and his buddy hadn't switched patrols? What if Ned hadn't drowned his grief and guilt in drugs and alcohol? What if he'd gotten help sooner? What if a different charitable family had picked him up for some Christmas good will?

And what if it had been Detective Anthony DiNozzo who had married Victoria Vanderlicht twelve years ago, not Detective Justin Kemp?

If there was one thing Tony had learned from George Bailey, from his yearly tradition of watching the best Christmas movie ever, it was that what ifs and might have beens only lead you down the wrong roads. Roads where a war hero died in childhood. A harlot with a heart of gold never got a second chance. Where you weren't even welcome in the toughest, meanest bar in town.

For a moment, out there in the car with Ziva, Tony had almost forgotten that. For a moment, he had let his thoughts take him there, back to the breath-stealing romance between a Baltimore cop and a beautiful woman. To the dinners and movies and walks in the park. To the all night talks and simple pleasures of cooking a meal together, browsing a book store, laughing so hard at something only the two of them got. She'd been sweet. He'd been head-over-heels.

And then he'd met her father. He'd been ushered into the great man's study after their dinner at the Fell's Point mansion, the whole scene just a little too familiar to Tony. He could feel the dream unraveling before Victoria's father could blow his first smoke ring as he swirled the 20-year-old scotch in the monogrammed Copenhagen glass. When the multi-millionaire told him point-blank that, oh, yes, he knew of Tony's father, that he'd been in business with him once and learned his lesson about the integrity of people named DiNozzo, Tony's gut had filled with ice. Vanderlicht was a man of few words, but with them, he'd managed to rip Tony's romantic dream into tiny pieces. He was sending Victoria away, to their villa in Tuscany. She was on her way to the airport. And, considering that Tony's father was barely more than a conman and a thief, a certain young detective should count himself lucky that no "anonymous sources" would be tipping off the Baltimore PD about his familial ties to the criminal element.

And Justin Kemp, sometime drinking buddy, softball rival, law enforcement colleague, was waiting not so patiently in the wings to step in and become the good son. Tony shook his head, setting the flakes that fell around him into a mini whirlwind. Kemp brought his honest roots, his middle-class parents, and his aw shucks attitude with just the right mixture of pride and appreciation. He got the girl. And the children. And the fortune. And Tony got Wendy. Another broken heart. And a transfer. He got Vivian and Katy and Tim and Ziva, Jeanne and Paula, Tom and Jenny, Vance and Franks and Gibbs, and a family known as NCIS.

Well, why stop the what ifs there? What if Tony had still been dating Victoria when Gibbs offered him the job in DC? Happily married when a certain lipsticked envelope was delivered? Would he have been so quick to claim it? To open it? To breathe in deadly white powder that had scarred his lungs for life? Would Jenny have approached a married man to steal Benoit's secrets and his daughter's heart or would her obsession have taken another course? Would she have died alone in an abandoned desert bar or gone quietly into the night? And would Vance have still sent him away, with no notice and no discussion, if Tony had been married with a baby on the way?

Maybe his teammates would have respected a married guy when Gibbs took off to Ole Mexico. Maybe his probie, Michelle Lee, would have trusted him to help her, to dig her out of the bottomless pit of treason and deceit before it was too late. Too late for her, for Langer, for so many others. Maybe Gibbs would have thought twice about the head-slaps and the overtime, the ridiculous demands, the distrust, and the damned secrecy. Or, maybe he'd have looked into Tony's eyes, the eyes of a father, like him, and allowed a tiny spark of camaraderie to burn there. A link. A more level playing field. Maybe even a friendship.

Upstairs, a certain Angel, First Class, knew better. "Strange, isn't it?" Clarence had said to George Bailey. "Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?"

"Ah, Clarence," Tony sighed. "Where are you when I need you?"

When George Bailey saw Mary's face, watched her faint away in fear, he knew. He knew his life was worth something. Something more than the money he'd lost. Than the adventures he had never known. That even if his life was less than perfect, he'd touched others. Saved some, helped some, and bound a few together. His true family was worth jail, or disgrace, or bankruptcy. It was worth anything. And, upstairs, Tony had a family. Weird, dysfunctional, yes, but a family. And he was going to embrace it, enjoy it. It was his turn to bring laughter, to bring joy. If not at Christmas, then when?

Tony rubbed his hand against his coat and slipped his leather glove back on, clenching stiff fingers. Not one of his teammates seemed to do family right. Ziva's had raised hardened patriots, sacrificing love and tenderness for strategic gain. Tim's admiral father couldn't look past his son's ultimate sin of not joining up to continue the legacy. Ducky – never married, perennial child to his childlike mother. And then there was Gibbs. Stubbornly alone. His heart eternally unhealed of the searing pain of his losses.

Tony's family history fit right in.

He shivered and drew his gaze back down from the mesmerizing sight of fat flakes appearing out of the darkness. Around the Navy Yard, the concrete and brick was shrouded in a smooth, clean blanket. White. Pure. It was a thin façade, but, tonight, it would do. He slid his key into the lock on his trunk and lifted out the shopping bag filled with brightly wrapped packages. He had just enough time to get to the bullpen, set each package on its owner's desk, and see the end of the film.

"Daddy, teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings!"

Tony smiled, mouthing the last words of the movie along with Jimmy Stewart. "Atta boy Clarence. Atta boy."

Abby bounced out of her chair to wrap Tony in a hug. "Tony! I was afraid you were going to miss the end!"

He laughed. "Never, Abs. Just had a little elf-ing of my own to do."

She linked arms with him as they followed their teammates down the stairs, her head on his shoulder. Like a slightly skewed brother and sister, Tony and Abby didn't apologize for reveling in the season, in presents and Santa, twinkling lights and snowball fights.

Her head popped up and she clapped black-gloved hands together. "Oh, look! Gibbs is back!"

Tony watched the team leader shake water off of his coat with both hands as he rounded the corner into the bullpen. His usual stiff posture was eased, his eyes clear for the first time since Ned Quinn's case had erupted. Good. Maybe Gibbs could still head up to Stillwater and spend a little time with his dad. Tony slid one hand into his inside jacket pocket, feeling the smooth paper of the envelope he still held there, unsure whether to leave Gibbs' present on his desk or deliver it to the man's house himself. This was better, he nodded. Together. That's how a family should open presents.

He felt Abby's bony hip bump into his. "You know he was only kidding, right? Just grumpy old Papa Smurf keeping up the act."

"Kidding? About what?" Tony frowned, still fingering Gibbs' gift, wondering – for the sixty-second time – if he shouldn't have just bought his Boss another bottle of Jack.

"About the 'attitude adjustment' thing. You know."

Tony stopped midway down the stairs and turned towards her, his mind stuttering like a broken film on an old fashioned projector. "'Attitude adjustment'?"

"You know." Abby's hands were flying. "When I asked Gibbs what he was getting you for Christmas and he snarled, 'an attitude adjustment.'" Her best Gibbs voice sounded more like Ethel Merman. "That was just Bossman being Bossman."

He couldn't help it. Couldn't stop it if he tried. Tony's head turned, his gaze grazing over Ziva's excited face as she slid a knife beneath the curled, blue ribbon wrapped around her gift, across Tim's hurrying figure as he moved quickly towards his own desk and his own present. Gibbs didn't sit, just bent over his desk, one hand on the back of his chair, the other quick to tap a few keys, shut down his computer, and nudge his belongings into order. One hand lifted, reaching for the single lamp, and Gibbs' eyes lifted with it, finding Tony. Tony and Abby. Their voices loud in the empty bullpen.

"Why does Gibbs think I need an attitude adjustment?"

"You mean this time, DiNozzo?"

Tony let Abby pull him down the steps, let her lead him into the alleyway that defined his team's home within the bright orange walls of NCIS. Ziva was cooing, running her hands across the cashmere and silk pashmina she'd snatched from the wrapping. Tim's voice registered from across the way, exclaiming over the Dashiell Hammett first edition Tony'd found in a New York bookshop. This is the part Tony loved. The part that he'd been waiting for. Seeing the faces of his teammates as they opened the gifts he'd searched high and low for, after weeks of hunting – deliberating – investigating – until he was sure this was that one gift they would truly love. Tony loved everything about Christmas, but this? Seeing the look in the eyes of those you care about as they open something meant just for them? This was perfect.

Or it should have been. Now he couldn't tear his eyes from Gibbs' face.

"Wow, Boss. Thanks – I guess." Yeah. It hurt. So sue him.

Gibbs half smiled. "Bad time to stop being able to take a joke, DiNozzo."

It was as if the two of them stood within a calm, the whirlwind of Christmas swirling around them. Abby let go, dropping away to be caught up in Ziva's purring and Tim's high-pitched excitement. Where was the snow? The twinkling lights? The warmth of family that Tony had been fostering all evening? This place – this moment – was cold and dark and felt a lot like dismissal. Disappointment. Regret.

He stared into steely blue eyes, the what ifs and might have beens shouldering their way forward in his thoughts to crouch, predatory, eager to pounce. He brushed aside Gibbs' too frequent, too familiar excuse as if he hadn't heard it. Not this time.

"Something about my attitude bothering you, Boss?"

"Well, yeah, Tony." Gibbs' chilly expression and daunting body language could sink a cruise ship. "Thought maybe you'd grown up a little, left the chucklehead out there when you were A-floating."

"Huh." Interesting choice of words. "And just how have I been acting like a 'chucklehead,' Boss? I mean, specifically." Tony took a half-step forward, hurt and anger tying his gut unto a knot. It had all been so happy – so peaceful – just a moment before. "So I can adjust precisely to your specifications."

"Tony – "

That was Tim. Probie. His eagerness for a peaceful settlement to this stand-off just bouncing off the bubble of confrontation he and Gibbs had built around themselves.

"I mean, was it my getting my face pounded by the MPs during your secret mission with Domino? Too immature for you? Or maybe it was my accepting of your latest award, after all," he laughed, all teeth and bitterness, "I am almost as big a narcissist as a serial killer." Wasn't this perfect? A true family Christmas couldn't be celebrated without the clichéd fight – the undercurrent of resentment and anger bursting up through the thin layer of crispy pie-crust happiness. Joy to the freaking world.

Gibbs was not one to back down. Ever. If anything, he fine-tuned his blandness into his blunt weapon of choice. "I dunno, DiNozzo, I guess I was hoping you'd changed, but between the air guitar and thinking face competitions, not to mention Christmas movie night, kinda poured cold water all over that."

Voices around them intruded, soothed.

"Gibbs! What's wrong with movie night?"

"Hey, c'mon you guys."

"It has been a long few days, perhaps …"

Not exactly a choir of angels, but their teammates' interference pricked the darkness around Tony and Gibbs, allowing in tiny shafts of light and hope. Tony shoved down his resentment – his anger - that his dream of a sweet, joyful Christmas had been cancelled out by Scrooge McGrinch. Bossman. Gibbs. Another father figure Tony had apparently disappointed, earning the blue ribbon of Not Good Enough.

It was a damned wonderful life, wasn't it?

He snatched the envelope out of his jacket and slapped it against Gibbs' chest, forcing his boss to grab at it before it could fall. "Hey, Merry Christmas, Gibbs. Hope you get everything you wish for."

The snow had stopped falling when he pulled out of the Navy Yard. Alone. The night sky was clear, stars watching from a cold distance.

"Clarence, don't get any ideas," Tony mumbled as he made the turn onto 9th Street. Sleep was all he needed tonight. No family. No friends. No yule logs or tree trimming or carol singing. No ZuZu petals or bells ringing.

As if on cue his cell sounded from his coat pocket. "Gotta change that ringtone," he muttered as he finally grabbed it and thumbed the off-switch. Vance had promised them a day off. Tony would be breaking rule number three for the duration.

As he took a left onto M Street, he unconsciously finished the musical phrase his ringtone had started. "… and danced by the light of the moon."


	2. as I was walking down the street

**A/N: Wow – thank you all so much for your many favorites and follows, and for those who took the time to shoot me a note via review. It is wonderful to receive so much of a response for this little story. Much love to you all!**

Chapter Two

_"Sometimes there is no next time, no time-outs, and no second chances. Sometimes it's now or never." Alan Bennett_

Gibbs glared. White paper, barely as thick as a dime, with some neat black lettering. It should take more than that to distract a disciplined Marine, shouldn't it? But the thing sat there on his kitchen table, stark against the worn wood, like a damned time bomb tick-tick-ticking away. He raised the coffee cup to his lips, never taking his eyes off the envelope over the rim of the cup. One word on the front mocked him. Churned up a storm of anger and guilt in his gut. One word written in the private-school educated hand of a boarding school brat, not the hurried chicken-scratch of federal agent.

"Boss."

All curlicues and flourishes. Just like DiNozzo.

His mug banged down on the counter a little too hard, Tony's parting words to him re-echoing in his mind, just as they'd done for the past 36 hours. "Hope you get everything you wish for."

On the drive up to Stillwater. In the sometimes awkward silences that still fell between him and his father. During a long walk when childhood memories chased him like ghosts. There, in the back of his mind, were those bitter words, and, if he let himself remember, the gleam of hurt and betrayal behind green eyes.

He shook his head. He blamed it on this time of year. Everything rode too close to the surface during Christmas – things successfully buried for eleven and a half months of the year waited just beneath the ice, barely out of sight. The good memories - the gleaming warmth of his daughter's smile, the smell of Shannon's hair, the few Christmases they'd spent together, surrounded by twinkling lights and carols and brightly wrapped presents - they always dragged along the others, the ones about death and emptiness, loss and pain and self-hate. Insistent, nagging, the memories slapped at him as he went about his day, dousing him with ice, rousing emotions that he thought he'd mastered years ago.

"… everything you wish for…"

Not an hour before his unexpected confrontation with DiNozzo he'd spoken that wish out loud. Admitted it, accepted the pain along with the joy at the memory of Kelly's love. Sitting in that cold car with Quinn, two lonely men sat watching his family through the window. Alive. Warm. Smiling and laughing. All Gibbs had were his memories. Quinn could have the reality. Here. Now. So, there in the car, behind a screen of falling snow, removed from light, from warmth and wholeness, he'd told Quinn what he wished for. What he always wished for. Every single day. The chance to hug his daughter one more time.

He'd wanted to slam his fist into Tony's face when he'd had the nerve to spit the same words at him in the bullpen.

Hadn't DiNozzo got what he wanted? Didn't he always? Gibbs had kept his desk empty, put off Vance's nagging, had dragged him off that carrier and back to DC. Patted his team back into place after the torrential shit-storm of the past year. A storm that DiNozzo had had a pretty big hand in creating.

Jenny's damn frog hunt. DiNozzo's lies. They'd all come back to haunt them. Destroyed trust. Demolished authority. She'd been wrong for the job of director from the first step she took, from the first words out of her mouth in MTAC, from the first flirty gleam in her eye. But she sure knew how to push buttons, how to take advantage of her openings – with the pinheads on the Hill as well as within his team. She'd always been good at that. Prod for the soft spots. The weaknesses. Go in for the kill. He shook his head angrily. Or, more likely, get someone else to do it for her.

A few months alone with his team, with DiNozzo drowning as team lead as Gibbs recovered in Mexico, was all she'd needed. She'd gotten what she wanted – Benoit dead. But it had cost her her life and Gibbs his team.

He turned his back on the accusing white paper, busying his hands with rinsing out his cup and setting up the coffee maker for another pot. He'd done it. With no help from Vance or SecNav or anyone else. He'd dragged McGee out of the basement. Gathered Ziva back from Mossad. And sneaked DiNozzo back with his collar. The team was working. Sniping. Teasing. Putting in the long hours and the weekends and putting the scumbags in the ground. Or behind bars. Abby's "family," and Ducky's "A-team." The fit might be awkward, the jokes more biting, and the one-upmanship game more cutthroat, but there were here. All of them. Even DiNozzo.

Maybe it had been a mistake. Gibbs rubbed his hands over his face, calluses burning against his skin. Another mistake. Trying to restore the past. Like the car his father had kept for him. It looked right on the outside, but, when you opened the hood you could see that some things had changed, that here and there a piece stood out, too shiny, too new, to fit in with the rest. An icy hand clenched around his heart. Like trying to recreate the best marriage on Earth by standing up with three other women. No matter how hard you try, it's never the same. Going back – doing it right – making all the right decisions this time, taking the precautions, eliminating the variables that turned it all to dust – it was like the universe wouldn't allow it.

He'd chosen different types of women. Women without Shannon's moral code, her inner strength. Women who would have thought about their own safety first, not about doing the right thing and putting a murdering drug dealer behind bars. He dug his thumbs into his eyes, snorting out a laugh. No wonder the marriages hadn't worked.

Was that what he was trying to do with his team? To go back and do it right? Not to the beginning – a single bullet hole, blood spreading under dark hair spread out in a fan around Kate's surprised face made sure that wasn't possible. But Gibbs had set all of his pieces back on the board in their familiar places. Cop. Assassin. Geek. And this time, he wouldn't let McGee's timidity, Ziva's impulses, or DiNozzo's damned jokester frat-boy childishness screw it all up.

Already, McGee was different. Stood taller. Looked you in the eye. And he was as quick to smack down DiNozzo's usual brand of teasing and bravado as Gibbs. He'd come into his own down in the basement and was not about to let anyone forget it.

Ziva was calmer. Her rough edges smoother. Her visit to her homeland had opened her up – to a relationship with a fellow Israeli agent, as well as to some of the fun she'd never allowed herself to enjoy here. Gibbs had no idea how to encourage that – hell, if it wasn't bourbon, a boat, and a basement, he was out of ideas for what constituted "fun." But giving her every opportunity to visit home, to see her boyfriend, couldn't hurt.

DiNozzo was another story. He grinned. He joked. He played games on his computer and turned the bullpen into his own personal stage. One minute he'd been reaming Gibbs out for not trusting him, and the next he'd been almost giddy in Stillwater. Gibbs straightened his arms, hands against the countertop, head hanging down. If he was going to put things to rights, to protect himself, protect his team, he couldn't let DiNozzo fall back into his old ways. He had to change. And Gibbs was going to see that he did.

Because when he looked over at DiNozzo's desk, all he could see was Langer's dead eyes staring up from a blood-soaked floor.

He'd never seen Lee coming. Never thought a young woman – a lawyer - could play him, could lead her desperate double life right under his nose. And Langer. Another mistake. Another deadly mistake. A good man had lost his life because Gibbs was too slow, too confused, and too stupid to see the truth. Looks, bearing, smarm – he'd been a flat paper copy of DiNozzo himself. The suits, the smile, the determined laid back attitude. All he'd lacked was –

The sharp smell of ozone and the ticking of hot glass swept Gibbs from his thoughts. Water. He hadn't put any water in the coffeemaker's reservoir. He reached to yank out the plug but it was too late. The glass coffeepot burst, spewing thin shards in every direction. Gibbs brushed them from his coat, out of his hair, touching his thumb to his cheek and raising his eyebrows at the tiny drop of blood he found there.

One second of doubt – of distraction – always ended up with blood. Gibbs stared at the chaos of glass and coffee grounds. Not this time. He turned his back on the kitchen – on the sticky mess and the pristine white envelope – and headed out.

Tony straightened his tie, smoothing down the lapels of his best Dolce suit and making sure his coat was folded perfectly over one arm. Making a great first impression with Leon Vance might not be possible – not without a time machine and a way to slip some valium into the man's coffee - but every little bit helped. He was early for their appointment. Dressed impeccably. He'd even run his paperwork through the nitpicky eyes of his most bureaucratic pal. Paper-pusher extraordinaire. The agency's version of a political fixer – and God knew NCIS needed one.

He smiled. Who would have guessed that Tony DiNozzo and Stan Burley would have ever become friends?

Stan had dodged the bullets of the NCIS hierarchy changes like a ninja. He'd managed his promotions and postings, exiting Gibbs' team before the agency became a real power-broker on the Hill (Morrow), keeping far from DC when the power structures were unstable (Jenny), and yet remaining close enough to the top of every flow chart that, when the new, unallied players (Vance) were looking for which end of the string to pull, they came up with Burley every time. If anyone truly understood the agency's red tape and could wind it into the prettiest bow it was Stan.

Yesterday had been quiet. Quiet enough for Tony to do some thinking, some soul searching. To make the proverbial lists of pros and cons, what might be and what was only wishful thinking. Tim, ever the peacemaker, had emailed. Abby had called, anxious for her black-sheep brother and her hard-headed father to do the manly hug thing and make up. Tony hadn't expected to hear from Gibbs and he wasn't disappointed. As a good sheepdog, Tony was expected to shake off the man's short temper and arbitrary disapproval and come back to work with a wagging tail to drop his ball at the master's feet. Roll over. Play dead.

Burley hadn't been surprised by Tony's visit. Even on the day after Christmas, with his twin boys chasing each other around the guy's Falls Church McMansion, Stan had the phone to one ear and his laptop open on the kitchen island. His wife had ushered Tony in with a hug, a cup of coffee, and a plate of homemade cookies while still in her fuzzy, Black Knight pajamas, her blond hair twisted up in a ponytail. No make-up, no fuss, no apologies. Burley was a lucky guy.

And Stan the man had taken one look at Tony, ended his call, and narrowed his eyes.

"Huh. Took you long enough."

If anyone knew the ulcer-causing, headache-inducing thrill ride of working with Gibbs, it was Stan.

Tony had shaken his head, laying his leather gloves carefully on the counter. "I'm not after a transfer, Stan, no matter where you think I could land somewhere up the ladder."

Stan had rolled his eyes. He'd been urging Tony away from Team Gibbs for months, forwarding him tantalizing emails about posts in exotic locations, featuring warm climates and higher pay. "What, then?" he'd demanded. "Because I don't think you'd come here on the day after Christmas to discuss next year's fantasy baseball or Ohio State's chances in the Fiesta Bowl against Texas."

Tony had spun the laptop and opened a new browser, pulling up a link to the NCIS secure site. With a few keystrokes he'd opened a half-dozen emails and Stan was reading over his shoulder.

"Okay," Burley had acknowledged – grudgingly – eyebrows crawling up towards his hairline, "that could work."

After a few hours of talk, video-conferencing, beer gradually replacing the coffee, take-out Chinese, and the partial building of the Lego Death Star with four-year-old Paul and Peter, Tony had left feeling hopeful enough for a good night's sleep.

And now, this morning, he was as prepared as he'd ever be.

The elevator stopped on G, one level up from Abby's lab and down from the bullpen, and Tony stiffened, his expression carefully blank. Not that Gibbs ever used the NCIS main entrance. Or that Tony was hiding. Exactly. He managed a quick smile for Emily Sherman and Eileen Fortuna, NCIS' "double E" of Environmental Engineering, and stepped back, relieved.

"Good morning, Tony."

"Morning, ladies. Did Santa bring you everything on your Christmas list this year?" He ignored the sharp reminder of his own words two days before. Small talk. Flirting. He could do this in his sleep.

"Well, nobody released a toxic substance into the ventilation system, so I suppose I can't complain," Emily chuckled.

"Oh, that one always slays me, Doctor Sherman. Almost literally," Tony added with a smile. "Open one envelope …" he sighed.

"Gives a new meaning to 'white Christmas,'" Eileen elbowed her colleague playfully. "How about you, Tony?"

"Oh, I think Tony's been on the naughty list since he reached puberty," Emily laughed, tugging off her stocking cap and fluffing up her short brown curls.

Tony threw his head back in mock laughter. "Oh ha-ha. Got me there, Em. Nothing but coal for little Tony."

"Aw," Eileen pouted dramatically. She held up a colorful tin she'd had tucked up in one arm. "Come by later and I'll be happy to share some of my homemade fudge. After all, anyone who works with Agent Gibbs deserves many blessings."

The doors opened on the bullpen level and the women stepped out with waves and grins.

Tony dropped his forced camaraderie and peered into his reflection once again. "From your mouth to Vance's ear," he murmured as the elevator began its journey up one more floor.


	3. a pretty little girl I chanced to meet

Chapter Three

"_For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else. It is about your outlook. Regret or rejoice."_

"Jethro."

Gibbs tightened his grip on his coffee cup.

"Careful," Stan glanced down at the crumpling cardboard, "that tar you drink is probably hot enough to take the skin off your fingers."

The lanky agent had his elbows on the table, his coat folded neatly on the bench seat next to him. In Gibbs' diner. In Gibbs' booth.

Drinking –

"Hot chocolate, Stan?" Gibbs stepped towards his former agent, one side of his mouth quirked upward.

Unbothered, Burley raised the frothy cup to his lips. "Not manly enough for you?" His eyes closed in appreciation as he sipped. "Ah. Naomi makes the best cinnamon cocoa in the DMV."

"'Naomi,' huh?" Gibbs slid into the opposite seat, irritation climbing. "Can't you find your own coffee joint on the Hill? Some place with cappu-frappu-whatsits that cost eight dollars a cup?"

Stan shrugged. "I like this one. It fits better with a civil servant's salary, anyway."

"So, just a coincidence to see you here then." Sure. A coincidence. Surely Stan hadn't forgotten how he felt about those.

"No. Actually, I came here to see you. See what a guy with his head up his ass looked like." Stan scanned him, head to toe. "Pretty much the same as always, I see."

Eyes narrowed, Gibbs put his cup down on the table and took a deep breath. Controlled. In charge. A wet-behind-the-ears pencil pusher wasn't about to rattle him. Not today. Not ever. "What's the game, Stan? You on the SecNav's dime? Vance's?"

Burley took another sip of cocoa, unhurried. "Nope. I've got another three days of vacation." He leaned back against the faux leather cushion, one arm laid along the top of the seat. "Today it's Christmas with Laura's family in Silver Spring. Pete and Paul will get more Lego sets with all those little bitty pieces that cut right through the sole of your foot in the middle of the night." He tipped his head to one side. "Laura's stressed, of course. Family." He shook his head, blue eyes twinkling. "It's the best and the worst, isn't it?"

"If you say so." Gibbs had a hard time getting the words out through his clenched teeth.

And suddenly Burley was in his face, leaning forward across the narrow table, his family-man guise replaced with a cold, calculating stare. "He's got one foot out the door, Jethro. Out your door. And into a division that would be lucky to have him. Grateful to have him. I'm curious what – if anything – you're going to do about it."

Gibbs could pretend surprise. Pretend he didn't know exactly who Burley was talking about. But the anger that had sustained him – kept him moving, kept his mind churning, avoiding, pretending – surged and then fizzled, burning out in a single white-hot flame of pride and resentment. And just like that, all he felt was tired.

"What the hell are you doing, Jethro?" Burley whispered.

Exhaustion weighed down Gibbs' muscles, stole the strength from his back, the straightness from his shoulders. "You say that like you think I have a clue."

Stan stared, searching for something behind Gibbs' unflinching gaze. "Bullshit."

The word slapped out, hitting Gibbs hard, instinctively bringing his chin up, defiance sparking a new flame in his gut.

"Oh, yes, there he is. There's the bastard." Stan sat back again, smirking. "Two seconds of honest emotion is about all anyone can expect from the Almighty Gibbs."

"God, you haven't changed at all." Gibbs' smile twisted against his face. He pressed both hands flat against the table to keep from hurling his coffee cup at the other man. "Still blaming me for everything. Everything from your damned queasy stomach to global warming or whatever the hell they're calling it now." He shoved backwards, twisting to get his aching knees clear of the table leg. "You don't like me, Stan? Don't like the way I do things? Then stay the hell out of my way."

Just as quick, Gibbs was pinned against the booth, the ridged metal edge of the table jammed against his ribs. "No, Jethro. I haven't changed much. Not many of us do after thirty. But you have. And I'm here, spitting into the wind, to try to get you to see that."

"Believe it or not, I do like you," Stan laughed, "and I still think you're a good agent. Or, that you have the potential to be a good agent, a good boss – a good man – again. But I'm pretty sure that I'm in the minority right now. Heck, I'm not even sure you believe it yourself."

Shock ate away the residual anger. Tore at the layer of disgust and disapproval that smothered every thought and feeling these days. No one challenged him like this. No one smacked him on the back of the head and told him to straighten up. No one got in his face. At least, no one had lately.

Not since…

Stan let up the pressure on his ribs a bit, but kept the table firmly between them. "Why did you insist to Director Vance that Tony come back to the team?"

"It's my team," Gibbs spat, the same words, the same answer he'd been giving for months now.

"Yes, it's your team, and no one is going to mess with your team except you."

"Shouldn't be a surprise, Stan."

"No, no. It's not." The taller man shifted backwards, pulling the table straight. His bearing, however, told Gibbs that he was not backing off an inch. "So, you wanted your team back. Tim, Ziva, and Tony. And now you have them. And you still aren't happy."

He wasn't. Nothing was right. He'd put the damned puzzle back together and still his gut churned and his mouth shot out bitter, angry words. "I wanted-" he shook his head. "I don't know why I'm telling you this, damn it, but, it should be different. It should be …"

"Easier? Smoother? You wanted your team back and here they are," Stan waved one hand in the air, "the same as the day they left."

Gibbs leaned forward, fist pounding on the Formica surface. "But it's not! They're not the same! And no matter how many times I try to convince myself that McGee hasn't become a pompous ass or that Ziva hasn't fallen back into the Mossad mindset of keeping secrets, I know it's not true. None of it is true." God damn. Enough. He slammed out of the booth, grabbed up his cup and headed towards the cash register.

Unfortunately, Stan was right beside him.

"And what about Tony?"

Shoulders hunched up around his ears, still Gibbs couldn't stop the way Stan's careful words were opening his eyes. Tim's smug smile and biting put-downs. Ziva's whispered phone calls and arrogance. And DiNozzo, trapped between them, with only one foot firmly on dry land. He tore off the lid of his cup and downed the lukewarm brew in a few gulps.

Naomi stood motionless behind the counter, the coffee pot in one hand and a tentative smile on her lips. But - smart woman - she was keeping her distance. Waiting. Watching for some sign that the confrontation was over. That approaching Gibbs would be safe. He breathed deep and closed his eyes.

"Tony," he sighed. "Tony's watching. Waiting." Wary of Gibbs, of his teammates.

"Is he?" Stan's voice was low and filled with worry. "What do you suppose he's trying to figure out?"

Gibbs snorted. "Maybe he's trying to figure out just why he was so eager to come back to this mess in the first place." To people he trusted, people who were supposed to be his friends, his family. To people who, now, would cut him down without a thought.

A fleeting touch on his shoulder made Gibbs turn his head. There was no more anger in Stan's eyes – no more accusations. Just truth. Honesty. "Or maybe he's just trying to find his footing, Jethro. To get his life back. And wondering if the hand held out is really for him or for an echo – a memory."

"I-"

"Gibbs," Stan interrupted. "Do you even remember him?"

Frustrated, Gibbs huffed, brows creased, hands flung out exasperation.

"Listen." It was an order. "Do you remember him? Tony DiNozzo. The guy you hauled back from Baltimore by his tube socks. The master of the intuitive leap. The investigator that so many other agencies would love to get their hands on. The guy who partnered you – alone – for two years and kept up with every step, followed every order, and shouldered through every damned week of silence. Because I don't think you do." Stan shook his head. "Who exactly did you want back from sea, Gibbs?"

Thoughts whirling, Gibbs had no answer.

The Director slid the file closed, straightening it to sit precisely in the center of his desk. Leaning back in his chair, he gazed at Tony, his poker face redefining bland. Vance had listened, and had read over the memos, requisitions, and details Tony and Stan had put together, one finger tapping gently against the pages the only noise in the room. The letters of recommendation and support had raised the man's eyebrows for a second – especially the hand-written notes from the Undersecretary of the Navy and the CNO himself – but that had been Vance's only sign of an emotional outbreak.

"Well, this is a surprise."

"I'm sure it is, Director." Tony kept his hands relaxed in his lap, kept his expression determined, and rode the waves of disapproval and irritation from the other side of the desk with the solid persona of a professional. Vance might be pretty good at masks, but Tony DiNozzo was an expert. Yeah, he had both nature and nurture on his side. And that's what this was all about, wasn't it?

Vance locked his hands together over his waist. "I don't recall you taking initiative like this in the past. Or choosing to distance yourself from Gibbs and your team – even for a short while. Especially not this soon after your time on the Reagan."

Tony managed to keep his muscles loose, his features set into an easy, dispassionate façade. He hid the sudden urge to take it all back – pretend it hadn't happened. To snatch up the paperwork and head back to his desk before anyone was the wiser. He could power through this. Ignore it. He'd ignored worse. It's what he did – how he coped. Team dinners. Head smacks. Demotions Threats. He'd shrugged them all off at some point. Guess he was out of practice.

Trust Vance to bypass the obvious questions about how someone like Tony had put this all together. How the goofball, the jock, the team's talentless dead weight had managed to sift through the bits and pieces of data that were floating around the NCIS system and come up with this. _That_ Tony could have dealt with.

"Let's just say I'd need to rebuild some foundations," he replied. "Go back to how it all started. Hone my skills and remind myself," and others, he added silently, "the kinds of expertise I can bring to bear."

"'Back to how it all started.' You're referring to your start in law enforcement or the fucked up op by which you and Director Sheppard nearly ruined this agency?"

Tony didn't rise to Vance's bait. Sure, it would be easy. Overdue, even. He could storm off in a huff. Very dramatic. The righteous (guilty) anger wasn't buried very deep, not with the people around him constantly digging at that grave. Unfortunately, that was likely to screw up everything he and Stan had planned. So, instead, he crossed his legs, adjusted the seam in his trousers, and acted as if Vance's question had really been a question.

"I did my time in Peoria. Walked my beat. No big crime waves in a city of about 100,000. Six months in and a task force from Chicago came knocking, looking for young guys to plant inside a suspected fight club that had sent six boys to the hospital and three to the morgue." He pressed two fingers to the side of his jaw, reliving the pain for a moment. "Right there at the beginning of my law enforcement career, I was taught how to hone my masks, my 'secret identities,' if you will," he flashed a smile, "and encouraged to keep them handy – just in case."

He leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. "I was a natural born actor, Director."

Before Vance's anger could explode, Tony continued. "I earned my detective's shield in Philadelphia – youngest investigator ever – after an eighteen month undercover assignment infiltrating the Macaluso crime family. I'd only been on the job a couple of weeks before my captain saw my potential and sent me under." He brushed at an invisible speck of lint. "If you'd ever read my file, you'd know that. You'd also know that it was with much regret that Captain Jenkins signed off on my transfer to Baltimore. For my own protection." Memories flew past, dimming his vision for a moment, softening his tone. "Mike Macaluso didn't appreciate finding out the guy he thought of as a son turned out to be a cop. No, didn't appreciate it at all."

"But I digress." Tony looked up, catching Vance's withering glare and holding it. "Cap sent me away, but kept me close enough to work behind the scenes to upgrade Philadelphia's Special Operations department. Helped make it the top undercover squad in the nation, hell, they're still using our manual in Chicago, New York, and here in DC." Yes, he was ringing his own bell. But it was all true, and it felt good, for once. "Now, after eight years at NCIS, caught on film a couple of times at crime scenes, and interacting with a lot of the alphabet soup boys around here, my own undercover days might be coming to a, well," he tilted his head, "a definite middle. But I don't want to pretend I have nothing to contribute. Or that I overlooked an opportunity to help out my own agency," he paused long enough for Vance to sit forward and open his mouth before finishing, "just because of an unfortunate personality dispute with my superiors."

"'An unfortunate personality dispute.' That's what you're calling it?" If Vance's words were glass he'd have a mouthful of blood.

Hands open, eyebrows raised, Tony marveled. "What else could it be? My performance reviews are good, my closure rates are top-notch – even while I was dragging a reluctant team along behind me during the day and ordered into an unsanctioned op on my own time." If he emphasized the 'ordered into' just a hair, no one could blame him. "My CO's afloat were both sorry to see me go and backed that up in writing, even as my Boss here in DC fought to get me back." God knows why, he added to himself. "So you tell me, Director."

Vance's chest rose and fell as he struggled to tie down his emotions. The man was good – Tony wouldn't deny that. But Tony was better.

Finally, the Director fit his bland, in-charge persona back into place. Hands crossed on the file in front of him, he leveled all his guns at the man across the desk.

"Jeanne Benoit."

Tony didn't flinch. Didn't gasp. Did not react.

"When the FBI brought Jeanne Benoit's accusations of murder here, to this agency, to this very office, you and I had a talk. Do you remember that, DiNozzo?"

It was the first time Tony had sat here, on the other side of Jenny's desk, staring into the feral gaze and the lethal toothpick of Leon Vance. After waiting all day in Evidence Lock-Up, after dealing with Fornell's softly spoken questions, the accusation had fallen on him like an ACME anvil dropped off some cliff by Wile E. Coyote. All of a sudden he'd been standing at the bottom of a well – at the wrong end of a telescope – and he and Alice were skipping through a Wonderland as dreamlike and confusing as anything directed by David Lynch.

And just as he'd been pulling himself together, he'd been called up to the Director's office and Vance's blunt speech had flattened him again.

Vance hunched forward, pressing one finger into the desk as if he wished it were Tony's chest. "I told you then – and I'll tell you again – I don't trust you. The Benoit fiasco was as much your fault as Sheppard's. In my mind, you and she were a team, no matter how many times you cry 'following orders.' You may have the Undersecretary fooled, your CO's fooled, and Gibbs wrapped around your little finger, but I'll never trust you, DiNozzo. Never." He spat the words like bullets.

Tony sat very still. Quiet. Unfazed. He blinked slowly, measuring Vance's bitterness, waiting for it to ebb.

"Understood."

Again, he waited for the knee-jerk fury to fade. Watched the other man's body language. The fleeting emotions tick across his face.

"Will you be speaking to the Undersecretary directly then, sir? Explaining why his orders in this matter will not be carried out? Or would you prefer – "

"Shut up, DiNozzo." Vance shoved himself back from his desk, turning to half-face the window, the sun cutting across his features to give high definition to the planes and angles of his face. Not a good look. It emphasized the sagging skin of his jowls, the deep creases around his mouth and eyes.

Long minutes later, the NCIS director slid the file folder into his lap and scrawled his name across the action order. "Callen and Getz are arriving this afternoon. You can meet them at the airport." He didn't look up. "You know Callen, correct?"

"Yes, sir." Tony stood. Back straight, hands clasped behind him. Awaiting orders. "G and I have worked together before." He'd be happy to play chauffeur. To take on the grunt work. No need to rub in his momentary victory. In a few weeks, when this review of NCIS Special Projects was completed, Tony would be back under Vance's thumb. He wouldn't give the man any excuses – any more excuses – to hate him.

Vance stood and prowled around the desk to stand eye-to-eye with him. Chin up. Clearly aching for a fight so that he could slap Tony down hard.

He shoved the file folder into Tony's waiting hands. "I'll need daily reports. Copy me on anything you send the Undersecretary. And I want your schedule. I may want to sit in on a meeting or two."

"Of course, sir." He was sure the other man would read the 'like hell' in his eyes.

"And you can tell Gibbs about your little TAD. I'm not about to be your messenger boy."

"Looking forward to it, sir."

And, what do you know? Tony meant every word.


	4. her feet took up the whole sidewalk

Chapter Four

"_We stomp on all the caterpillars and then complain that there are no butterflies."_

Halfway down the stairs, Tony heard the soft click of Vance's door closing behind him. He knew what he'd see if he turned around – Vance, both hands braced on the rail like it was the bridge of his ship, the man's hooded eyes taking in all of the rats scurrying around beneath him. He was watching. Waiting for the fireworks. For Tony's announcement and Gibbs' reaction.

Slowing, Tony breathed deep and took it all in. The seventies' orange walls coupled with the glass and chrome of someone's idea of 'modern style.' The comforting smell of that particular NCIS combo: coffee, paper, gun oil, and perpetually damp industrial carpeting. Bureaucracy meets military meets law enforcement. It was as if the organization had as many personalities as Sybil, or Herschel Walker. Or Tony himself. Maybe that's why they couldn't seem to figure out how to hire the right director. Ever since Tom Morrow's escape to Homeland it was either manipulative, obsessive bitch or manipulative, egotistical bastard. What Tony wouldn't give for a nice shot of competent or intelligent or even trusting, no matter which "b" word was attached to it.

The elevator's bell chimed and Tony smiled as Ziva rushed out, still brushing snow from her coat and hair. He was glad she was back, far from her own manipulative bastard father and his unfatherly demands. Sure, he was glad, for her sake, for her safety, but the luggage cart full of disdain and superiority she'd brought back with her didn't give the rest of them much room to maneuver. That three-month booster shot of arrogance had swept her up to the tippy top of Mount Mossad where the chosen few looked down on lowly cops like Tony.

McGee was hunched over his computer, his back stiff, head twisting every few seconds to sneak a peek towards the stairs. McGee. Little brother all grown up. Tony frowned. He had no experience with actual real families – not ones that seemed to make up the delicious rich filling of the standard American pie. Maybe this was normal. Maybe, after a few months of absence, of isolation among his own minions, little brothers came back with a vengeance. With snarls and smug and bitter reminders that, oh, yeah, big brother was so not needed anymore.

And there was Gibbs. Sitting at his desk, his face blank. A granite statue. Unmovable. If Tony was the king of masks, Gibbs only ever needed one. Bastard. Boss. Do what I say, not what I do. And never, ever, ask questions. The legendary iceberg that they all kept clear of for fear of calamity.

He didn't know if it was a shift in the wind, the heavy smell of change in the air, or the NCIS fast-as-lightning grapevine, but other agents seemed to be circling, heads peering over ugly orange dividers. There were more than usual hovering around their desks, or standing in twos and threes near the windows with prop-files in their hands pretending to be deep in conversation. There used to be friends there. Pacci. Franklin. Janning and Menz. Some had been taken by perps and dirtbags, far too soon. Some had made their own exits, stage left, with hopes and dreams and families and successes. Like Stan. Those who were left were poised, predatory, raising small, dark eyes to take in every drop of drama. Sharks. Scenting blood in the –

Tony gripped the railing and rolled his eyes at himself. "Seriously, the ocean metaphors have got to stop," he muttered. Oceans. Ships. Sharks with big, grinning teeth. Being afloat had done something to his mind, he was sure of it. He'd wake up from a dead sleep, or turn a corner and expect to see gun-metal hulls closing in on every side, to feel the shift and yaw of the deck, and to know with a sick dread in the pit of his stomach that returning had all been a dream.

Some dream.

Raising his chin, Tony pursed his lips, trying to shift his stubborn imagination from its obsessive lock on Moby Dick and The Perfect Storm to something a little more James Bond and a little less Captain Ahab. Connery. Connery always worked. He eased the Scotsman's persona from his internal green room and settled it across his skin. Much better. A combo platter of Bond, Allan Quartermain, and Jim Malone. Confident. Tough. In charge. Tony felt his muscles ease, his limbs loosen. He could handle this. He was going to handle this.

He moved down the last few steps.

McGee must have caught Tony's approach out of the corner of his eye. He surged to his feet, his chair banging against the cabinet behind his desk, calling all of the attention Tony would have loved to avoid to his entrance.

Shaking his head, Tony jogged down the last few steps. "Dinner theater, again –"

"What?"

"Hey!"

Tony and Tim grabbed each other to keep from ending up in a heap.

"Geez, McMaverick, watch where you're going." Tony shrugged off Tim's clutching hands and stepped away. "Your need for speed could do some real damage." He checked his hair before clapping his folders against McGee's chest to ease the man out of the way.

"Wait. No. Tony. Hold on." McGee crept backwards, one hand clamped around Tony's wrist like an unfortunately moist limpet, to tow him past the bullpen and left along the long hallway towards interrogation.

Sighing, Tony allowed himself to be led halfway down the hall and out of sight of the madding throng before digging in his heels and forcing Tim to a stop.

"Enough, Probie. I do not intend to let you drag me into some broom closet for a heart to heart. Unless you're planning to come out of one. Closet, that is. In which case I applaud your honesty and support your life choices."

"Shut up, Tony, and let me talk!"

"And say what, McGee?" The thin skin of suave tolerance Tony had applied was slipping. "It's all been said – more words are not going to fix this situation. You know it – I know it – Gibbs and Vance know it." Gibbs didn't need a rule about actions speaking louder than words, he lived it every damn day.

"Stop it."

The sharp rebuke, barked out too loud in the cramped space, grated against Tony's nerves. McGee's eyes were bright, fierce determination blistering the air between them. Fine. Tim wanted to get in a little pre-show teaser? Tony could handle it. He shifted his weight, readying himself for a blow, and raised his eyebrows, inviting Tim to speak.

"Okay, good." Tim nodded and let go. "It's just that, I know you, Tony. I know that this is killing you. That Gibbs' attitude hurts."

Ah, yes. Here it came. Tony's precious feelings had been stomped on – that was all Tim could see. Tony smiled. "Timmy –"

"No, listen. I get it. You were expecting something else, a completely different reception." Tim's hands flailed as he sought for words. "A prodigal son, fatted calf thing. And that's not what happened. Yeah, we all lined up to say hello, but there was no big party, no celebration. No 'thank God you've arrived,' kind of welcome. And that's what you really wanted."

The flinch was easy to smother, easy to absorb. McGee's roundhouse blow was sloppy, aimed right for the breadbasket, but too slow, too soft, to take a veteran fighter like Tony down. Yeah, Tony had been hurt by Gibbs' words, Gibbs' attitude, a few days ago, but that was a symptom, not the disease. Tony kept his reaction in check, his expression bland and receptive, waiting for his opening.

"Fine, sure," McGee was picking up speed now, "but that was your expectation, Tony, your assumption. You assumed everything around here had gone to hell without you and we'd be standing here with joyful tears waiting for you to pick up the pieces. Well, that didn't happen. We were fine. Gibbs was fine. I was fine. And you shouldn't be punishing us for not living up to your stupid expectations."

Tony waited a long beat. "You done?"

Tim lifted his chin, obviously expecting a return blow. "Yes. Just … yes, I'm done," he added.

"Sounds to me like you're trying to convince yourself, McProbie." Tony smiled – if it felt like a knife slash across the cold marble of his face, no one needed to know. "Let's take your points one by one. First," Tony raised one finger and then tapped it on his own chin, watching Tim flinch in anticipation. "First, let's talk about how 'fine' you all were. Ziva's nearly killed. Langer's dead. Lee's a spy. And a murderer. And Vance is so unsure of himself and his organization that he bases an entire, internationally-reaching investigation on the strength of Gibbs' gut. Yeah. Sounds hunky dory to me. Fan-freaking-tastic."

McGee opened his mouth but Tony stopped his angry retort with a tilt of his head. "Ah, ah, ah. Now, what about expectations? Whose are we discussing? I think we're discussing yours, Timmy, not mine." He raised a second finger in a parody of the Boy Scout salute. "Honesty is our watch-word, isn't it?" He swept his hand around in a circle until he was pointing to himself. "Me? I was too happy to be back on terra firma to expect a hootenanny. You, however, had built me up into a partying-useless-dead weight who was returned to sender with a big ole 'no thanks' stamped on his forehead. I believe, if you actually follow the evidence, you'll find that to be spectacularly wrong, Probie."

"And, finally," Tony spread out three fingers before closing his hand into a fist, "we'll deal with your third point. How I shouldn't 'punish' you." He stepped forward, crowding Tim against the corridor's wall. "I'm not punishing you, McGee. In fact, this entire situation has very little to do with you. And everything to do with me."

Tim's chin might have quivered a moment, but he took control of himself quickly – and, in that instant, Tony was more than proud of him.

"No?" Tim demanded. "Then what's that in your hand? You're resigning, aren't you? Flouncing off in a huff. Damn it, Tony – "

"Stop," Tony breathed in a dark whisper. No more. It was Tony's turn now. No more waiting, no more hoping, no more … expecting. "Rule number eight." He bit off each word in McGee's face. "Seems like everyone's forgotten that one lately. But," Tony raised his fist and tapped McGee lightly on the nose, "thanks for the reminder. About the rules." He stepped back and tugged his partner's jacket into line, straightened his tie. "That makes this so much easier."

Tony turned and strode back to the bullpen, brushing off McGee's strident demands and the stares of the other agents as he would filmy cobwebs across the past. He'd almost forgotten. Had almost convinced himself that there had never been anything else to Anthony DiNozzo than sass, style, and street smarts. Maybe he shouldn't expect people – his teammates, his friends, Gibbs – to remember that Tony was damned good at his job if he didn't believe it himself.

Rounding Ziva's desk, Tony didn't waste any more time on the watchers. The waiters. The riff raff who couldn't bear to miss a single second of the expected shouting match. He watched Gibbs stand, brace himself behind his desk as Tony came to a stop facing him, mirroring the older man's stance. Chin up. Eyes forward. Shoulders back.

He snatched a sheaf of papers from his folder and handed them across the desk. Gibbs took it, held it gingerly in both hands, but didn't glance down at it. Of course. The man was all-knowing, wasn't he?

Silence fell over the squad room. Voices. Phones. Computer keys. Ventilation. All quiet.

Tony held Gibbs' gaze, patient and sure. Unrepentant. Unbowed. When the silence threatened to pile up and bury him, he spoke. Two words. Just two.

"Rule five."

"And then there was the time in, what was the name of the club? Riverdance? Leprechaun's?" Callen's grin was wide and easy as he doubled over in his chair, laughing and pointing at the snickering special agent across the table. "Some ridiculous fake Irish place that you dragged us all to for these awful green drinks with some horrible combo of Chartreuse and Crème de Menthe, ugh!" He shook his head as if the taste still lingered in his mouth.

Tony could hardly catch his breath to speak. "And … and there you were … tryin' to charm the lassies … brogue as thick as … as Connery in 'Darby O'Gill and the Little People.'" He pulled himself up straight and put on his worst 'flirting sleazeball' façade. "'Ooh, ma dearie, let a real Irishman lead ya to the end o' the rainbow.'"

The thin psychologist on Tony's left tipped his head down to hide a smile and swirled the melting slush in his glass, his iced tea long gone. It hadn't been much of a disguise anyway, Tony mused. Dark liquid in a tall glass wouldn't fool the hard drinkers of this establishment. Tony's eyes flicked back and forth, taking in the details around him once again: the lingerers, the networkers, and the youngsters out of their depths. The restaurant was a Capitol Hill staple, the epitome of the District's heavy-handed style over substance persona. The scent of oak-aged scotch, Kentucky bourbon, and Irish whiskey perfumed the air, a permanent fixture in the heavy drapes, the mahogany wainscoting, and the pores of the tight-lipped servers of this overtly masculine restaurant. Once upon a time it would have been filled with cigarette smoke, adding another level of haze between the men costumed in tailored suits and old-school ties who spent hours here playing their roles.

Tony and Callen fit right in.

G had absorbed Tony's 'good old boy' persona as soon as he'd stepped off the plane. The man was a chameleon, with skills Tony could only dream of. A master of being exactly the right person for every situation. Tony was good, yes. He could blend in with corporate execs, mafia dirtbags, or the perpetually bored rich. Frat boy or street musician, soldier or slacker. He had masks, quite a few. But G - he let his gaze linger on the man's seemingly open grin, his utterly relaxed sprawl, just the right glint of superiority in his eye - G was Playdough. Tony envied him.

The back of his neck prickled. The slightest alteration of position, a sudden lifting of the psychologist's chin, and the change of mood struck Tony like a cold slap. He slipped one hand down his lapel as if smoothing it, still grinning at Callen's responding joke, letting the bulge of his weapon in its shoulder holster reassure him. He wasn't surprised when Callen dropped his napkin and turned its retrieval into a tug on his pant leg. Ankle holster.

They both turned to the smiling figure seated beside them. Nate Getz. OSP psychologist. Nothing more. Eyes narrowing, Tony let his hand fall into his lap. Not a threat, his mind registered. Not a physical threat, the suspicious angel on his other shoulder was shouting, waving red flags bright with warnings about insightful therapists and judgmental reports making their way up the NCIS bureaucratic ladder.

Getz was laughing – silently – shoulders shaking. Glancing up at the suddenly tense agents at the table, his eyes opened wide and he lifted one hand as if asking them to wait. "Sorry. Sorry," he finally managed. "I didn't mean to interrupt your scene, I was just wishing I'd brought my video camera."

"'Scene?'" Tony tried not to let too much of his residual anger leak out.

"Don't mind him, Tony," Callen leaned back, letting the tension drain out of his muscles. "The Doc is a good guy." G didn't carry the relaxation as far as he had before, didn't slide the 'drunken, giggling old friend,' back across his skin, but now wore his real face. The face of a competent agent. A little tired, a little jaded, but openly fond of the man who'd been laughing at him a moment ago.

"I don't know." Tony wasn't quite ready to let go. Masks were great, but sometimes they chafed. Especially when you were already raw and bleeding from the wounds of so-called friends. "Your friend here seems to think we're – that I'm – some kind of joke. Trying to find the 'good guy' in all that."

"Agent DiNozzo, please." Getz had sobered up quickly. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, long fingers folding around his empty glass. "I apologize. I meant no disrespect and I certainly don't think you or Agent Callen is a joke. I guess I've grown a little complacent, working with one talented undercover operative. I was beginning to think that nothing he did could surprise me." He pointed one finger towards his own chest. "That was my mistake." His mouth quirked up at one corner again. "You, Agent DiNozzo, are amazing. Gifted. And watching the two of you together," Getz shook his head, the laughter now replaced with a sense of wonder, "well, I think I just attended a masterclass in distraction and deceit."

Tony stared for a long moment, weighing the man's remarks and Callen's obvious acceptance of the psychologist's explanation. 'Distraction and deceit.' That was a compliment, right?

"Tony." It was Callen's turn to distract, apparently.

Shoving his chair backwards an inch or two so that he could keep Getz more squarely in his line of sight, Tony raised his eyebrows towards the other agent..

"Look." Callen leaned forward over the round table, his voice low and urgent. "I know we came here for an evaluation. For advice. To get some distance from the LA team and consult with an expert." He nudged his chin in Tony's direction. "But it doesn't take a psychologist to figure out something's going on with you. Something's raised your defenses, Tony. Sent you into undercover overdrive." He broadcast his concern with every word, every movement. "Even among friends."

"Yeah, well," Tony tried a soft smile, wiping one hand across his forehead, "you try picking up the pieces after four months at sea and a homecoming that included a pointless war game, the kidnapping of a child, and the realization that a woman who had once been your probie was a murdering traitor."

Getz was nodding, but it was Callen who spoke up. "Domino. Langer. Lee. On top of that you had to find a new apartment, new wheels, and try to blow the dust off of the life you used to live. People who had grown and changed and moved on. I get that." The man's intensity ratcheted upwards, blue eyes fixing Tony in place like a bug on a board. "But it's something else, isn't it? Something more personal?"

"How much more personal can you get, Agent Callen?" Getz looked like he was measuring the distance to the nearest couch he could get Tony to lie down on and spill his guts, or at least to find a notepad and a pen he could tap against it while mouthing, 'And how did that make you feel?'

Tony shuddered.

"No." Callen stopped Getz with a word, his eyes never leaving Tony's face. "You're good, Nate, but I know what rattles me, what sends me under. It's always personal," he whispered, shadows crowding him. Time passed, probably only seconds, with Tony holding his inner bulwarks tight while Callen sought a way in. And then it was over. Callen's lips tightened, his hands clenched.

"It's Gibbs, isn't it?"


	5. I asked her if she'd have a dance

_**A/N: You are all amazing! Thank you so much for all of the wonderful reviews and follows and favorites. You make me smile (and update faster!). One note: for those who have commented, or left me questions as "Guests," I wish I could respond to your questions, but I can't reply to PMs from guests. **_

Chapter Five

"_Society is a masked ball, where everyone hides his real character, and reveals it by __hiding__." Ralph Waldo Emerson_

The suite at the Adams' House delivered a heady combination of familiarity and contempt to Tony's sensitive nerves. He wasn't quite sure why he'd chosen it for Callen and Getz, why he was drawn to the place like a fly to a particularly sticky spider web. The hotel of choice for Washington's movers and shakers, the rich and the nouveau riche, high-level diplomats and businessmen with overblown expense accounts. Not to mention Tony's father. He glanced around the well-appointed sitting area of the two bedroom suite. Maybe that explained it. Anthony DiNozzo, Senior was the master of masks, the true virtuoso of appearance over substance. Off balance, on edge, Tony was undoubtedly channeling the man who'd first taught him how to preen and grin and pose and never give anything away.

The psychologist had called it. As soon as Tony had greeted G with that shit-eating grin and slap on the back camaraderie, the scene was set, and the two agents had fallen into their roles like Oscar hopefuls. Tony hadn't wanted to get into anything at the restaurant. He'd waved away Callen's insight, paid the bill, and led the two Los Angeles operatives back here. Back to work, to case files and psych profiles, to picking through what had gone right with the Office of Special Projects, and what had gone – spectacularly – wrong.

Callen had let it slide, just as Tony knew he would. He was a good man – a great agent – but most of all he was known for a personal code of honor. If Callen trusted someone, he was all in. One hundred per cent. Without question or reservation. It was the only way he could survive, the only way he could function as an agent who slid between operations and between facades on, sometimes, a daily basis. And there lay some of the problems with the LA office.

If G trusted someone, it was like trying to shift the Great Pyramid at Giza with a toothpick to get him to change.

And G trusted Gibbs.

Tony had no problem with that. Whatever Gibbs and Callen had shared had happened long before Tony met him – met either of them. Fundamentally, Gibbs was trustworthy. In a firefight, he would take a bullet for a civilian, a fellow Marine, or any member of his team. He would put himself in harm's way and not think twice – or even once – about it. He'd face down politicians, go toe-to-toe with foreign dignitaries, and challenge the director, Sec Nav, and God himself to keep his people out of trouble.

With Gibbs standing behind you, straight-backed and steely-eyed, who wouldn't feel trusting?

The only problem was, Gibbs only seemed to stand behind Tony when he was looking over his shoulder. Second-guessing. Belittling. Or so he could reach him better for the all-too-frequent head slaps. Tony was willing to bet his entire DVD collection that Callen had never met this Gibbs.

"It baffles me," Tony repeated, tossing one particular personnel file back on the already over-loaded coffee table. "It's such a distinctive look, I don't know how anyone could have assigned her to this office."

"Kensi has been nothing but an asset to every case she's been involved in."

"I'm not talking about the work, G. She's gifted – and she is not the major problem – but anyone with a birthmark is asking for trouble trying to slide in under the radar. Especially a facial birthmark that is so obvious and cannot be covered up with make-up." In her eye, for God's sake. The woman had a birthmark in her eye. "No matter how good she is, word is going to get around about a gorgeous fed with a birthmark in her eye."

"That is definitely something to note for a future discussion," the psychologist stated, obviously hoping to steer the conversation back to the primary issue. He unfolded his long legs from beneath him and laid back along the floor, both hands under the small of his back. A few deep breaths and a sigh of relief later and he was up, leaning over the table to snatch up one file in particular. The one they'd been avoiding since Tony's first suggestions.

The personnel file of Lara Macy, Manager of the OSP.

Tony caught Callen's frown, the way he crossed his arms over his chest and raised his chin. Yeah, this was not going to be easy.

"G. Come on. You know she doesn't have the right background for this." Former MP gave her a good investigational background, but managing an office of undercover operatives? Macy was woefully unequipped.

"She works well with the group dynamic. She doesn't push me – or anyone – into situations we're not completely ready for."

"And those are huge, huge deals, G," Tony admitted. Being pressed into a role that didn't fit, or one that was badly researched or backgrounded was the kiss of death to an undercover agent. Tony swallowed down the familiar taste of regret about how he'd deceived Jeanne Benoit. An innocent woman who had no idea how her father made his money. He remembered the darkness in Ziva's eyes after she'd sunk into her role of 'helpless victim' too far. She'd insisted she could do it – that she'd been tasked with far deadlier missions when she was working for her father – but Tony had his doubts. Doubts he'd taken to Gibbs in private. Doubts that had been labeled 'sour grapes,' and 'jealousy.'

"But, listen," he continued, "while Macy has good instincts, and a Marine's Semper Fi, what she doesn't have is her hand on the reins."

Callen shot forward in his chair. "You think I need – that we need – more pressure from above? Someone who's going to scrutinize every decision I make? A Monday morning quarterback?"

Tony sat back, seemingly relaxed. If Callen pushed, he fell back. If the other agent smiled and rose for a drink, Tony demanded and insisted. Push and pull. Back and forth. He'd done this dance too many times to count with a mule-headed boss who didn't take questions or suggestions or even comments too easily. Get the other man to see things from another perspective. From not only outside the box, but outside the wrapping, the tape, the label, and the post office that sent the box. He glanced towards the psychologist. "Is that what Callen needs, Doctor Getz?"

"Definitely not."

"See? Definitely not," Tony parroted. "Okay?"

"Okay." Callen shifted backwards, his eyes narrowed warily. "Then what's your point?"

"My point, my friend, is this. You may trust Macy. You may believe she has nothing but good intentions for you and your team. But, in the end, you don't respect her."

"I –" G stopped, closing his mouth on an automatic denial.

"Tony's right. She gives you permission to right your own ticket, G. To 'make it up as you go along,' which should be an undercover agent's wet dream. But it's not. And, if you think about it, you recognize that." Getz sat gingerly on the edge of the loveseat to Tony's right, again placing himself off to one side but deliberately between the two agents.

Tony snorted, appreciating the man's subtlety. He turned back to the silent agent opposite him. "Agent Macy thinks you know more about undercover work than she does."

"And she's right," Getz added.

"And she's right. So where does that leave you, G? Respect is important. Hell, it's vital," Tony added, his voice loud and bitter within the quiet ambiance of the elegant room. "Within a team and within a chain of command. In both directions." He took a breath and slid one hand down his tie. Calm. Professional. Unbiased. That was his job, and by God he was going to do it.

"Who are you trying to convince, Tony?" Called asked with a half-smile and dead serious eyes.

Tony flung both hands into the air. "No one. Because everyone in this room already knows this."

Silence piled up around them, each man's thoughts spiraling closer and closer towards the center, towards agreement and understanding. Tony and Getz allowed it to build, waiting out Callen's uncertainty. No fidgeting. No off-color jokes. No movie quotes. It wasn't necessary. And they'd both see right through that kind of behavior, anyway.

Callen sighed. "And if I agree?"

Catching Getz' half-nod, Tony leaned forward. "Then it's our job to find the OSP a new manager. One with the right contacts to help you, and the right experience to pull you out of your own headspace if you need it. One you and your entire team can respect."

"Yeah, I'm sure I don't have to remind you that a person like that is not easy to find." Callen's laugh wasn't mean or demeaning, it invited Tony in to that small circle of like-minded agents that G belonged to. Agents who weren't cookie-cutter versions of their superiors, whose personalities and gifts made it a sure bet that their ladder of success was short a few rungs up near the top. Agents who had been burned and had been forced to stand by while they watched others fall.

He knew that Tony understood.

"I never said it would be easy, G. Or that the search would be quick, a matter of plugging things into a spreadsheet." Not even McGee would be able to program those variables, Tony figured.

Getz cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, I have some ideas on how to proceed."

Tony picked up his glass from the table and toyed with it, keeping his hands busy while he weighed his words. Psychologists. Psychiatrists. Therapists. Counselors. Profilers. He understood the need to have one on board for the OSP – at least for the early phases. Understood it intellectually, anyhow. But, in Tony's experience, head-shrinkers were the clichéd definition of a catch-22 scenario. The more you shared, the longer the claws they burrowed into you, reaching into the dark places you kept hidden for a reason. And the less you shared, the more they bent their will against you, pounded at your barriers and defenses, until they went away satisfied or frustrated. And a frustrated psych could make an agent's life a living hell.

_Kate had been a terrible profiler._

The thought rammed into him from one of those dark, walled off places in his soul. He didn't talk about Kate – didn't think about Kate. How he'd failed her. How she'd died with a joke about him on her lips and her blood in Tony's mouth. He didn't want to think about her, to dredge up their petty bickering or her pointy elbows or her too thin skin and too open heart. Kate was a bad profiler because she was kind. She let people fool her, she let them be whatever they seemed to be. It took her years to peek beneath Tony's masks and, when she did, she turned away. She didn't want to know. Didn't want to see. If Tony was nothing more than a skirt-chasing goofball, then at least he was happy.

Tony sent an inquisitive look across the table. He got a slow, solemn nod in reply. Callen trusted this particular psychologist. Believed he could help. Maybe even was beginning some kind of friendship with the man. Tony's gut clenched. Yeah. Been there, done that.

"Okay." Tony finished the last of his club soda in one gulp. "I guess if I'm going to preach the 'let me help' sermon, I should hear a little of it myself."

Getz had waited patiently, silently, while Tony ruminated. He gestured towards the files strewn across the table. "We could wade through the file of every senior agent, go through them page by page, searching for someone with the right kind of experience, the right mentality, the particular strengths and flexibility needed in this type of office." The psychologist nodded his head side to side as if giving the idea due consideration. "I have confidence in the three of us – we have a good combination of skills and insights. And it would only take us a few months. Sitting here. Doing nothing but this."

Tony couldn't mask a quick smile and a huff of laughter. "I'll put another pot of coffee on."

"What I'd suggest is that we utilize all of our resources. Call in someone with decades of experience in the agency, who has met and worked with many of the candidates over the course of his career. He may be able to sift out potentially problematic personnel quickly and deliver a much smaller and more refined set of agents for us to discuss. He'd act as a filter."

"Not Vance." The words burst from Tony's mouth before Getz had stopped talking. No. Just no. He may have just given the psychologist way too much of a sneak peek into Tony's twisty-turny mind, but, too bad. There was no way he was going to get on his knees and beg the man who hated him for a favor. Or kowtow to his seemingly 'vast experience and knowledge' of NCIS. His mind swerved in another – just as horrifying - direction. "And not Gibbs, either."

To Getz' credit, he didn't pause knowingly, or jot down any notes about 'Agent DiNozzo's problems with authority,' or even narrow his wide open eyes. "I wasn't suggesting either man, actually."

"Oh, well, good then." Tony stretched out his neck and stuck one finger under his collar to loosen it. Yeah. Great recovery there, DiNozzo. His pounding heart slowing back to normal, he cocked his head at the psychologist. "Who, then, is this ideal of insight, this paragon of perception, this doctor of discernment?"

"I was referring to Doctor Donald Mallard."

Tony blinked, blindsided. _Well, shit._

The doors to autopsy slid out of Gibbs' way long before he reached them, as if they could sense his mood and wanted nothing to do with him. He couldn't blame them. After the initial flurry of curiosity, Ziva and Tim's careful demands for information about Tony's exit, and Vance's snide smile from on high, the squad room seemed to be giving Gibbs a wide berth. He'd sat there, rock-steady and silent, for as long as he could. As long as it took to remind everyone that he was in control. Unfazed. To stop the whispering and get everyone focused back where they belonged.

Except himself.

_Rule five._ It echoed around his skull, bouncing against the stubborn wall of self-righteousness he'd been constructing for the last few months. His own words. His own rules. DiNozzo knew exactly what would finally get through to him.

"Agent Gibbs."

Palmer, looking up from a clipboard full of paperwork, was unaffected by his sudden appearance. Was the young man's stare a little cooler, his stance a little more aggressive than usual? Tilting his head, Gibbs examined the medical student from head to toe. Huh. Palmer didn't flinch.

"Palmer."

"Doctor Mallard should be back in a minute. He's just stepped out to take a phone call."

Gibbs glanced towards the ME's desk set against the left hand wall, black telephone staring back at him. "Perfectly good phone right there."

Palmer absorbed the cold tone with no visible reaction. "So there is."

The silence expanded around them, anchoring the two men at opposite ends of a field of battle. Gibbs was good with silences, carried them around him like padded armor that stood between him and the expectations of others. But he didn't like silences that were created by others and then aimed at him like laser-sighted missiles.

"You have something to say, Palmer?"

The young man's lips tightened as if he was considering the question. "I'm not sure I do," he admitted after another irritating silence. "Not right now, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs moved closer, not quite stalking Ducky's assistant, but close enough. "Well you be sure to let me know," he growled.

"Definitely." Palmer's chin lifted, a sudden spark in his eyes behind the studious round glasses let Gibbs know that his usual intimidation tactics had only aggravated the young man.

"… Of course, Anthony. Yes. Not at all, I'd be more than happy to …"

Ducky was already a few feet inside the room when he looked up from the papers in his hand, his knuckles around his cell phone whitening.

"Ah – let me call you back, my boy." He nodded at something only he could hear. "Indeed. That would be fine. Good-bye."

The phone slid neatly into his lab coat pocket; the sheets of paper held close against his chest. "Jethro. I am sorry if I kept you waiting. Is it something urgent?"

Gibbs' gut churned; heat raced along his nerves, urging him to tip his internal scale towards anger. He bit back the hasty comeback that snapped to his lips and swallowed it down. More sourness for his stomach to swirl. "No," he stated evenly. "Not urgent. No new case."

Ducky, his expression carefully blank, straightened his shoulders. "I find it very telling that your definition of 'urgent' relates solely to cases. To your work."

"Well, seeing as how I'm currently at work," Gibbs raised both hands in an obvious gesture.

"Indeed." Ducky dropped his head in acknowledgment and moved towards his desk. Perching on the edge of his chair, the medical examiner placed his papers face down and accepted the clipboard from Palmer's hand. "In that case, since there is no body to process - for the moment – there must be nothing to discuss."

Both men had their backs to him now, waves of disdain and disapproval rolling his way like black thunderheads. Gibbs gritted his teeth, hands clenching at his sides. First Stan, now Ducky. He shook his head. Better stay away from Abby's lab – who knew how the high-strung Goth would react to Tony's TAD. To Gibbs' short-sightedness that had sent him there.

"Ducky."

The older man's stiff posture sagged at Gibbs' sigh.

"Ducky – don't make me apologize for every wrong word. We'll be here all day."

His honesty seemed to drop a lure into the silence.

"Give us a moment, Mister Palmer."

It was not until the doors had closed that the medical examiner turned to face him. "You're right, of course, Jethro," the older man sighed, suddenly the picture of a frail old country doctor. "After all, you are not the only one in the wrong, as I've just been reminded."

An automatic sense of protectiveness towards his old friend battled with Gibbs' need to know. "Tony called you." Obviously. Gibbs could still see what was right in front of him at least. He shrugged. It made sense. There were problems with the new OSP in Los Angeles. Problems unique to an office full of undercover agents. Herding cats would be easier than dealing with a team full of hyper-individualistic paranoids. Men and women who specialized in infiltration and deceit needed special handling and a chain of command that they could trust far beyond what was reasonably expected.

Gibbs felt his teeth grind. Sometimes he forgot. Forgot DiNozzo could have been among them. That he was a natural at undercover work and shared far more similarities with Callen and Hanna than he did with McGee and Ziva. And Gibbs. Gibbs would always be a Marine first and an investigator second: straight ahead, take charge, get it done. He rubbed one hand over his face but couldn't erase the red rash of shame that felt like a bloody scar there.

Ducky's shoulders rose and fell with his dry laugh. "For some reason Anthony is still willing to put his trust in my psychological expertise." The sarcasm was self-directed.

Gibbs frowned. "Why wouldn't he? DiNozzo's pissed at me, not you." The memory of cold green eyes seared Gibbs' conscience while those two words did another circuit of his rock-hard cranium. Rule Five. You don't waste good.

"You are not the only one who cannot control his mouth, my friend."

Damn it. What now? Gibbs strode wearily towards the nearest autopsy table and propped his hips against its cold metal frame. He waited.

"Yes, well, as awkward as it is to remember, I'm sure you haven't forgotten the self-titled 'Cyber-Vid Killer' case a few weeks back and the disturbed young man who had decided to make a name for himself by challenging one of the best investigators in this area to catch him? Namely you?"

Of course Gibbs remembered. As if the scumbags needed a new reason to kill, something beyond the usual money, drugs, greed, sex, and self-serving ideologies that claimed most victims. Cleverer murderers they did not need. "Yeah-" He stopped himself. Wait. Tony had said something. Made some comment when he slapped that envelope to Gibbs' chest a few days ago. Something about …

"Ah, you remember." Ducky pointed. "Right over there. You and I had what at the time seemed a silly, tension-relieving discussion about the traits of a true narcissist."

Videos. Clues. Taunts. The guy had been sick, but that was no excuse. Gibbs remembered the conversation in vague fits and starts. "Wasn't exactly concentrating on the 'banter,' Duck."

"No. But you may recall that I profiled the killer as having many of the psychological markers of an individual with Narcissistic Personality Disorder."

The scene burst into focus in Gibbs' memory, the harmless words gathering razor-sharp edges designed to slide smoothly into the thickest skin. Oh yeah, he remembered.

"_Oh, yeah, well I'm familiar with that, too." Gibbs had smiled with snide humor._

"_Yes, but where Agent DiNozzo has an obsessive need for admiration, he has empathy as well, something our killer lacks."_

Gibbs raised his eyes to Ducky's pale, apologetic face. "Figured he'd hear that."

Ducky waved one hand towards the papers still face down on his desk. "Apparently he was looking for you, wanted to make sure you were not about to go off half-cocked to catch the murderer on your own."

Denial rose up in Gibbs' throat like bile. "DiNozzo should be used to jokes – doles out enough of them."

"He does." Ducky pursed his lips. "However, such a mock 'diagnosis' should never be bandied about by a trained forensic psychologist. It is neither professional nor appropriate, even as a joke." The doctor nodded to himself, his gaze turned inward. "Words have consequences, Jethro. Especially when spoken by a doctor within his realm of supposed expertise."

"No one would take that seriously, Duck." Gibbs waved one hand through the air as if to erase the conversation from history. "It's like talking crap in the locker room." He didn't want to talk about this. Not what he came down here for.

One grey eyebrow quirked upward. "No one would take my diagnosis of a severe psychological disorder seriously?" The doctor's tone was soft, almost gentle.

Dangerous.

"Damn it, Ducky. You know I meant – I didn't –" Gibbs was going to break a tooth at this rate.

"That's just it, Jethro." The older man surged to his feet to pace back and forth. "My words – our words – spoken without true malice or the desire to injure – can still be devastating. Anthony is not a narcissist – my goodness, I have far more narcissistic tendencies with my long-winded stories and idiosyncratic styles of dress and demeanor. But, hearing two of the men he regards as role models, as friends and mentors, discussing him in the same breath as a psychotic serial killer, well, we should be ashamed of ourselves."

"Is DiNozzo keeping score, then?" Gibbs demanded, angry all over again at the shifting foundations beneath his feet. "Adding up columns of wrongs and rights and who owes who what kind of payback? Is this TAD assignment his way of scoring points?"

Ducky stopped to face him, hands shoved into the pockets of his lab coat. "No. This is Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo reminding everyone that he is neither a convenient punching bag for his colleagues nor a man who gained his position here at NCIS because of his quick mouth and handsome face." The older man's expression was a weathered storm cloud of self-reproach and sharp rebuke. "And it is a reminder that more than one of us is in need of."

Before Gibbs could open his mouth, one finger was pointed at his chest. "It is a perfect strike, in my considered opinion. With this assignment, Anthony shows Director Vance, a man who has made no secret of his disdain for our boy, that he has many friends in high places who regard him with favor. He shows you that his skills are abundant and severely underutilized. And he shows a stupid old man that he can move on from past hurts in order to serve this agency and his country and get the job done."

Knocked back on his heels, Gibbs let his instinctive reaction drain away. No amount of anger or bitterness could poke holes in Ducky's argument. DiNozzo hadn't run away to hide. Hadn't stormed off in a fit of hurt feelings and overreaction. He'd run towards something. Towards a problem that needed solving. A challenge that he was uniquely suited to meet. He was trying to help an agency that had sent him away as punishment for something that was not his fault, a director that hated him, and a boss who sneered at him on a good day and disrespected him at every opportunity.

Apologies were a sign of weakness. Except between friends. Gibbs straightened. Not sure if that word applied to him and DiNozzo – not now. Maybe not for a long time.

He nodded, meeting the challenge in Ducky's stern gaze. "How can I help?"

The doctor stepped closer and laid one hand on Gibbs' shoulder. "Has he asked for your help, Jethro?"

"He's asked for yours," Gibbs bit back.

"Which I intend to give him. But," the medical examiner moved back towards his desk, "as difficult as it might be for you, perhaps you should not be too quick to offer something Anthony might take as interference or the notion that you, of course, are infinitely better equipped to solve this problem."

"So what do I do, Duck?" There had to be something. Some way to mend his shattered team. To put back the solid bedrock of trust and friendship that had been missing for far too long. Gibbs had to – he needed to – rebuild what had been broken by time and distance and his own damned arrogant assumptions.

Kind blue eyes met his. "You wait, Jethro. Allow Anthony to knit up his confidence with this assignment. And, most of all," the older man raised his chin defiantly, "you give him something he wants to come back to."


	6. I thought that I might have a chance

Chapter Six

"_I can't change the direction of the wind, but I can adjust my sails to always reach my destination.__" Jimmy Dean_

The last three days had been murder. Literally. Gibbs rolled his eyes and slowed down to give himself a mental head-slap. DiNozzo is out of the office for three days and something inside Gibbs just can't help filling in the yabba. Yesterday it was a movie quote. Tuesday morning, after two rounds of techno-talk about Wi-Fi hotspots and wandering something-or-others, he'd thought fleetingly about that little tube of superglue and McGee's keyboard. It was as if that DiNozzo shaped hole in the NCIS universe couldn't stay empty; that silent beat after McGee insisted his brain could solve any crime as long as it was attached to a keyboard, those few heartbeats after Ziva butchered an English idiom. Something made Gibbs look up, wait for it, before stifling the urge to fill in the blanks himself.

But still, he grimaced and ducked his head to one side, there had been death, if not outright murder. Four sailors AWOL from Norfolk had decided to start new lives by hitching a ride in a shipping container at the railroad yard. Three of them were dead by the time they'd reached Virginia's Inland Port in Front Royal, discovered by their opportunistic cargo handler. One managed to survive to say good-bye to his little sisters in the nearby Winchester Hospital. It was a case that solved itself, sending four fatally stupid young men to the morgue, one railroad cargo supervisor to life in prison, and four grieving families to Arlington to listen to taps. Stupid kids. Sure, ride the rails and see the country. Unless you let yourself get locked into a container that had been used to ship hazardous waste and had never been sanitized properly. It had taken less than twelve hours for them to succumb to the fumes.

Unfortunately, every aspect of the case had somehow driven straight to the heart of the members of Team Gibbs. From the dirty cargo supervisor, to the dead bodies in a shipping container, to the bright blue nose and lips of the boy choking out his last words, McGee, Ziva, Abby, Ducky, even Gibbs himself could only think of DiNozzo.

At the crime scene, McGee and Ziva hardly said a word, but they seared the cold mountain air with glares that spoke volumes. Ducky's quiet tut-tutting over the bodies in the morgue was more regretful than accusatory, and Abby… well, Gibbs had been right to try to avoid her. She'd taken the news of Tony's TAD in typical Sciuto style.

Which mostly involved sad, accusatory eyes and a solid wall of articles about DiNozzo she'd mined from various newspapers, cop-shop newsletters, on-line forums, and, Gibbs was sure, her own personal stash. There were titles like "Organized Crime Task Force Guts Macaluso Family." "Child Pornography? Not in Peoria!" And, Gibbs' favorite, "Catholic Altar Boy Kicks Indicted Priest in Holy Orbs." Even as a kid DiNozzo had stood up for the other guy.

Yesterday, after the last sailor had been released to the funeral home, she'd added a few, front and center.

"Crazed CEO Reinvents Black Death." "Marine Rescued from Slow Death in the Sewers." But it was the last one that had finally lit the fuse:

"Baltimore Locks Down Weapons Trade by 'Following the Money.'"

Gibbs, Ziva, and McGee had walked in just as Abby had finished taping that one up beneath a picture she'd snapped of McGee cleaning soot from DiNozzo's neck in the bullpen.

"This, I remember," Ziva had said, sly smile sliding across her face. "He actually thought that burning the money would send a smoke signal-"

"I'm sorry," McGee had shot back, "who decided to fire her weapon within an enclosed steel container?"

Ziva twisted to glare at him, dark hair flying. "I would not have had to do anything of the sort-"

"Oh, really." Abby had thrown herself between them, practically vibrating with a combination of Caff-Pow and rage, "well who was it who arranged a 'team dinner,'" black nailed hands curved into claws around her air quotes, "and invited everyone except one person?"

Gibbs had put two fingers in his mouth and whistled just as Ziva's eyes had narrowed and McGee had paled even whiter than usual. "Hey! Enough!"

But Abby had been far from finished. She'd turned on Gibbs, hands fisted against her chest. "Maybe Tony should go- go to LA and work Spec Ops. Maybe they'd treat him like an asset." She'd spun, targeting McGee next, "or be appreciative of his experience and background, or," she faced back towards Ziva, "grasp his really, really excellent skills." One lifted finger stopped the words from tumbling from Ziva's open mouth. "Skills that fooled you, you," she swiveled on her stacked heels, "and even you during the Granouille fiasco."

Gibbs had tried stern, now he dropped his shoulders and let his exhaustion out in a sigh. "Abby."

"No, Gibbs. It's not fair." She'd stopped, wilting before Gibbs' eyes. "It isn't."

She'd turned her back on all of them then, burying her hands in the bagged evidence heading for lock-up. The air still sizzling with unspoken denials and unwanted guilt, Gibbs had told the other two to go home. A good night's sleep and a quiet day of filling out reports and checking on cases that had been back-burnered would turn them all around.

Apparently, it had been too much to ask.

"Gibbs. My office."

Leon hadn't waited to see his response. By the time Gibbs glanced up, the director's broad shoulders had disappeared behind his office door. Gibbs stopped, drained the last of one cup of coffee and tossed it into DiNozzo's trash can before jogging up the stairs. Good thing he'd grabbed two at the coffee shop this morning – somehow he didn't think he was going to like anything that Vance had to say.

"This about DiNozzo?"

Gibbs had decided to start the discussion on his terms. Vance had been closed-mouthed about Tony's assignment with OSP and all Ducky would share was that he was helping Callen's pet psychologist with personnel profiles. His gut had been churning, scenarios flitting across the darkness every time he closed his eyes. DiNozzo transferring. SecNav forcing the issue. Lara Macy, of all people, requesting Gibbs SFA to shore up her team of misfits. Teeth grinding, Gibbs posed in front of the director's desk, his mask of ease, of ruthless indifference, firmly in place.

"No. Believe it or not, not everything this office does is about Agent DiNozzo and your little family drama, Gibbs." Vance opened a thick file folder that lay in the center of his desk. "While you and your team were chasing dead sailors in Virginia, Jenkins and his team went out on a call about a DB. What they found there was … interesting, to say the least."

The director twisted his hand, sending the file spinning to land in front of Gibbs. A familiar face peered up at him. "Celia Roberts." Gibbs remembered her. Ruthless hooker who went off the rails. "She stabbed her victims multiple times before sawing their middle fingers off."

"Exactly the wounds found on the body downstairs."

Gibbs grabbed up the file before Vance could move. He flipped through the crime scene photos. "The body's old. Eleven years."

"Uh-huh." Vance nodded, eyes hooded. "Puts him right in her time-frame."

"Identification?"

"Navy Lieutenant Neil Poletto."

Gibbs' lips twitched as he bit down on a curse. That man's family had been wondering, grieving, hoping for eleven years. "Need to talk to Roberts. Get her to confess." Closure was all that he could offer her family now. Too little, too late, but all he had.

Vance rose and prowled around his desk, his movements slow and deliberate. Propping one hip on the edge, he crossed his arms over his chest. "Won't be easy. She's in for 175 years. Taking a few off the top for a confession isn't going to be much of an incentive."

Gibbs shrugged, flipping the case folder closed. "Nothing else to do."

"I agree."

Eyes narrowing, Gibbs considered Vance's bland expression, the slight tension in his shoulders, his too eager consensus and knew that nothing he wanted to hear was going to come out of this man's mouth. "I'll take Ziva." He strode towards the door, hoping to avoid –

"Gibbs, wait."

Damn it. He stopped, hand on the door knob.

"I have another idea."

ooOOoo

Ziva jabbed at the elevator button again and again, staring at the slow progress of numbers on the screen. Each one sent a sharp slice through her conscience. No, she reminded herself, not her conscience. Your conscience was only involved if you felt guilt about something. These were simply memories, reminders of pointed attacks on her actions, and, even as unfounded and unearned as those attacks had been, they burned like an angry fire in her belly.

She hadn't realized when she'd rushed through the lobby nudging people out of her way to slide between the closing elevator doors that the car had been going down. Down to autopsy, where, for the last three days, Ducky had insisted on spearing them all with sad, disappointed looks as he worked on the blue-lipped sailors' corpses. Two evidence clerks had exited on that level, skulking out of the elevator without making eye contact or speaking one word. Ziva couldn't help a slow smirk at their attitude, their intimidation. It was as it should be.

Now the car was crawling upward, passing the lab level, Abby's level. Ziva puffed out an irritated breath, her self-satisfaction fading. Abby's temper tantrum last night had been a ridiculous, childish display, her accusations the words of a sibling taking the side of a big brother. Sticking up for someone too weak to stand up for himself. She shook her head. Abby didn't deserve all the blame, of course. It was DiNozzo's fault, his actions that had caused this rift, which had unsettled the team's balance. He reveled in placing these, these _petsatsah_, these bombs in their midst and then running away, like the coward he was. Like those who targeted innocent Hebrew children in the marketplace at home.

She took a deep breath, eyes closed. She had witnessed one such bombing during her recent travel. Sipping tea on the balcony of Michael's apartment, she had been distracted by his scent on her skin, his lips on her bare shoulder, but the sound – a sound that each Israeli learned to recognize from childhood – had ripped through their serenity and sent them both to cover. The screams and sirens had followed immediately. Among the first to arrive at the scene, she and Michael had drifted away from each other, closed off and detached. Professional. They'd never spoken of it.

Back in the USA, safe within this nest of complacent bureaucracy, she had not expected to feel the same spark of sick fury. This same sense of betrayal and blame. Bombers were inherently cowards. Just like Tony.

Tim was already on the phone when Ziva hurried to her desk, dark eyes glancing here and there to make sure Gibbs was not watching, that he did not know how late she'd arrived. Lips tight, she berated herself – again – for the rut she'd fallen into. In Israel she had not felt the urge to linger along the running trail on a bright morning, to stop for tea and a scone on her way to work. Here there were so many distractions, so much freedom to come and go, unobserved, unwatched by her father or his minions. She could wander the streets at night, go to a restaurant, a club, the shops, meet new friends, or just walk alone under the night sky. It was exhilarating. Heady. And, combined with her newly blossoming relationship with Michael, it had turned her head, as they say. Turned her away from discipline and rigid self-restraint. Made her sloppy.

Ziva fell into her chair with a sigh, staring across the bullpen at Tony's unoccupied desk. At least there was no one to witness her foolishness today. She felt the familiar heat behind her eyes, the flush of her skin, the twitching in her fingers. No one should be able to spot her weaknesses. No one. She had been trained to present a façade of perfection, of barriers so thick that nothing of her essential spirit showed through. Her eyes narrowed as she imagined Tony's mocking laughter. The glint in his eye as he cocked his head in that irritating way while he pretended to _know_ things about her. To see into her soul.

The burning sensation intensified as she remembered Tony's smile, his pokes and prods at her. _How was Israel? Did you meet someone? What's his name?_ No one could know. No one could find out that she had feelings for someone. It was a weakness, and Mossad operatives did not have weaknesses. They were impenetrable. Unassailable. Or they were dead.

And she'd rather be dead than be thought of as weak.

McGee's voice rose towards a screech.

"Look, two days ago you said that my car would be ready yesterday and the bill was $270. Then yesterday you told me my car would be ready today and the bill would be $400. Now you're telling me that my car's going to be ready tomorrow? How much? $600? Okay, I understand but … tomorrow … Okay then. Thank you."

Speaking of weaknesses. Ziva adjusted her mask of sympathy and compassion. "Is there something wrong, McGee?"

The young man was flushed a deep red. "Car mechanics. They're so – I mean, they know, they just know that there's nothing you can – I wish I could just –" Incoherent with frustration, McGee fisted both hands on his desk and tried to pull himself together.

Ziva opened her eyes wide. "I would be happy to pay them a visit. To 'discuss' matters with them."

She could almost see the steam rising from her co-worker's nose, like an enraged bull. Poor Tim. His anger was so meaningless, so unintimidating. Especially when he realized others could easily see it.

Lips tight against his teeth, he leaned backwards in his chair, settling a thin veneer of calm across his features. "No. Thank you. I can handle it." Breathing slowing, he raised his eyebrows and tilted his chin upwards, an unconscious 'tell' that told observers that he was covering vulnerability with arrogance. "Sometimes it's not always the best policy to be tough, it could end up costing you more in the long run."

Ziva's instincts told her to speak, to teach this, this child, that showing weakness was always the wrong decision. Always. Attack first, go for the throat, go in for the kill. That was the only way to face a challenger. It was the Mossad way. It was Ziva's way. And now that Tony was gone, perhaps McGee would learn from her. She might find herself alone with him in the field – it would be wise to train him properly. But first he should be led away from his anger towards her, the blame he broadcast out of every pore.

Something had gotten McGee thinking. Or someone. Ziva swallowed down her annoyance. Abby. She had no doubt been feeding Tim her pap about DiNozzo. About his blamelessness and his sainthood. About how much McGee must owe him. Her teammate's indignation had erupted in the lab last night. He'd attacked Ziva for things said and done years ago, when she had first been assigned to the team. He must be reminded of her skills, of the many times she had taken his side against DiNozzo, of the bond she had first created with Tim when she was new to American soil.

"We should spar, McGee. Perhaps this tension between us could be resolved." It would be a start. Allow him to best her once or twice, give him confidence. Afterwards, she could take him to the tea shop he had found for her, remind him of better times between them. And then Ziva could show McGee what a fully trained soldier could really do.

"Forgive me, Ziva, but I don't think sparring with you would give me anything but bruises. And I'd prefer to avoid that."

Tilting her head to one side, she held McGee's gaze. "Even if I promised to show you some tactics you have never seen? Tactics that would guarantee that you could beat Tony the next time you were matched against him?"

The muscles in McGee's jaw bunched and quivered. He had never bested DiNozzo. Never. Timothy McGee lacked the confidence; the killer instinct. He was fool enough to believe that smugness was the same as confidence. That his perceived superior intellect and technical skills could hope to match Tony's muscle memory and experience. Timothy's weakness went beyond the physical – it was deep in his psyche. A weakness of the mind. Oh, how that knowledge would crush him.

"I don't care about beating Tony." McGee turned back to his computer, his comfort, his safe place. "That's not what sparring is about, anyway. It's about self-improvement. Not competition."

Ziva laughed out loud. "Do you think Tony believes that? That he does not relish the opportunity to come out on top? To exercise the small advantage that he has over you?"

McGee sat up straighter, not, still focused on his screen. "That's Tony's problem. Not mine."

"But you wish to show him, do you not? Show him that there is no avenue where he is your superior?" She could smell her teammate's eagerness, hear it in the undertone of his voice. He needed just one more push, just a tiny nudge to accept her again as an ally, as confederate against DiNozzo. She smothered her smile. When – if – Tony decided to return after his absence he would find a much different dynamic here. One he would no longer be comfortable with. And then he would be gone for good.

She rose and walked slowly to Tim's desk, sliding one long knife from the sheath that she wore against her ribs. "Which would you rather do, McGee? Present a soft belly to the enemy, or show him that trying to gut you would be the last mistake he would ever make?" Without turning her head, she flipped the blade backwards, smiling at the meaty **thunk** that followed.

McGee's eyes were ridiculously wide. She lifted her eyebrows, following his line of sight to watch the slim blade quivering, embedded two inches deep in the back of Tony's chair. Barely an inch away from a familiar, long-fingered hand that gripped the chair's back.

"That's coming out of your pay, David. I actually liked that chair."

McGee was instantly on his feet. "Tony?"


	7. to shake a foot with her

A/N: You people rock! Your wonderful comments, insights, favorites and follows make my day! Thank you so very much. Please forgive me if I don't respond to you each individually – I will try! More is on the way.

Chapter Seven

"_Regret is insight that comes a day too late.__"_

Gibbs had stopped listening as soon as Vance's intentions were clear. Now he was waiting. Watching. Considering the man standing before him instead of the noise coming from his mouth. He cocked his head. Something Stan had asked him … something about Tony. He replayed the awkward scene from the coffee shop in his mind.

"_Tony," Gibbs sighed. "Tony's watching. Waiting." Wary of Gibbs, of his teammates. _

"_Is he?" Stan's voice was low and filled with worry. "What do you suppose he's trying to figure out?"_

_Gibbs snorted. "Maybe he's trying to figure out just why he was so eager to come back to this mess in the first place." To people he trusted, people who were supposed to be his friends, his family. To people who, now, would cut him down without a thought._

Maybe following Tony's lead would be a good place to start. Time for Gibbs to do some watching, some figuring, instead of his usual 'full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes' mentality.

And he'd start with NCIS Director Leon Vance. Where did he come from? Where was his ambition taking him?

The west coast had been Vance's home, his little pond among the greater NCIS sea. Vance had been the big fish there. The last word. The center. Now, in DC, sitting behind that big desk with the nameplate and the picture window framing him, the man had realized just how far he was from the top of the heap.

DC was not LA. The buck stopped nowhere near this office, no matter how elegant. Here, Vance's big fish was swimming with the real sharks. SecNav and his Undersecretary, the Joint Chiefs, the CNO – there was always somebody with a larger bite circling, peering at him with calculating black eyes. Gibbs' eyebrows twitched. It must have been a hell of a shock for Vance to find his vaunted authority had little weight here, and that he'd left most of his allies, the men and women dangling on the ends of his strings, far behind.

Gibbs rocked back and forth, heel to toe. Now the man was scrambling. Searching for connections and allies to build into a new web of influence. SecNav and his office seemed determined to keep more than an arm's length of distance until the fallout from the Domino fiasco quieted down. The new OSP – Vance's darling – was wracked with growing pains. Now that Gibbs was looking, now that he'd taken a minute to focus on something beyond the end of his own nose, he saw the thin sweat stain on each side of Vance's collar, the pinched skin around his mouth, and heard the out-of-pitch vibration of his tone. It sounded like fear.

Maybe Vance had been telling the truth. Maybe DiNozzo's banishment hadn't been punishment. Ziva's termination and McGee's transfer, too. Maybe, instead, there had been a deeper strategy. A hidden game. Vance's real intentions would not have been to handcuff his best assets, to take apart the team that could result in enough arrests to send kudos down the chain of command and right to his office. It would be self-defeating, and Leon Vance didn't strike Gibbs as an idiot. He tuned in to the man's obviously rehearsed little speech again.

"Seems like perfect timing to me. McGee's been stuck in the shadows long enough. Give him a little room to grow while DiNozzo is out of the picture."

Gibbs shook his head, angry at himself again. He'd had it bass-ackwards the entire time. Vance's play hadn't been to punish, it had been to isolate. To confuse. To take a teetering foundation of friendship and partnership and pull out its last footing.

"Something to say, Gibbs?"

"Well, yeah, Leon, I've got plenty to say. First and foremost is that, unless the SOP has been rewritten since I woke up this morning, you never send an agent into a potentially volatile situation without any back-up."

Vance moved back to his chair, frowning. "It's a women's prison, Gibbs, not a war zone. There will be plenty of guards around whose job it is to keep control and not allow so-called volatile situations to develop. McGee can handle it."

"A prison yard is exactly like a war zone, Director. Two sides, each eying the other up for any weaknesses, for any opportunity to get the upper hand. And I'm not sending McGee or any other agent into that situation alone."

The director's chin lifted. "You don't trust him. Don't think he's capable of handling himself."

"It's not McGee I don't trust, it's Celia Roberts and all the other violent criminals she's bonded with who would love to get their hands on a federal agent." Gibbs set both hands on Vance's desk and leaned far forward into the other man's space. "You might want to rethink your strategy if you're willing to throw away a hard-won asset like McGee on the first play. Think he'll thank you when it all goes to crap? Or are you figuring on blaming me for this, too?"

He could have cracked ice off of Vance's expression. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Agent Gibbs, but I'd remind you that there is a chain of command in this agency."

"Oh, believe me, I can feel you swinging it." He pushed himself upright and took a step backwards – out of reach, safely beyond arm's length so he wouldn't be tempted. What would that accomplish? Gibbs asked himself. Another point to Vance, another snapped connection while Gibbs was reprimanded and every member of his team blamed each other for the tension that led him to strike out at his boss?

Gibbs' shoulders slumped. "I'm not half as pissed at you as I am at myself for not picking up on your game, anyway, Leon." He threw himself into a chair, rubbing at the headache that had moved in behind his eyes for the duration.

Vance waited a beat too long to really sell his reaction. "What 'game' do you think I'm playing, Gibbs?"

Gibbs let the silence linger and held Vance's gaze across the miles-wide distance between them. "You did what you promised. You cleaned house. Caught the mole. It came with a lot of collateral damage, though. You lost some good people." He narrowed his eyes. "Could lose more. But it gave you an opportunity to shake things up. Unsettle some habits. Divide and conquer."

Vance's eyes were dark sparks beneath his brow. "It needed doing."

Gibbs twisted his mouth into a half-smile. "From your perspective. No better way to cut ties, to shatter teamwork, than to separate over-stressed people. People who are grieving. Guilty. It's like having no wake after a funeral." Jenny's face swam against his memory, white-lipped with fury, obsession sparking in her green eyes. Then pale and bloodstained, her bright eyes filmed over in death. "No time for grieving. For getting drunk together and working it all out."

"Gibbs-"

"Then you whisper. About secrets. About loyalty. Hint about a team leader showing favoritism or laying undeserved blame." He raised both hands when he saw Vance's eagerness to respond. "A lot of it was my fault." Stan had been right. Gibbs had a bad case of narrow focus, of vision that tunneled down to pinpoint his current goal – catch the bad guy, catch the mole, seal up the holes in his defenses – and let everything else on the periphery go to hell. Stan had been right about a lot of things. "I should have stopped you. Insisted on SOP. Grief counseling," he choked out a laugh. "Imagine DiNozzo's face if I'd towed that line." Gibbs took a deep breath and let it out. "I've got a lot of rebuilding to do. With my team. With McGee. Ziva. And especially DiNozzo."

Vance laid one arm along his desk, broadcasting ease and self-confidence. "Whether or not what you've said has any merit, what does that have to do with giving Agent McGee more responsibility? Showing him that you believe in him as an agent? Maybe putting him on a better career path?"

Gibbs leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the Roberts' file held in one hand. "'Better.' You should be careful of your wording, Director. You'll give the game away."

"I don't intend to explain myself-"

"Listen." Gibbs rose, tucking the folder under his arm. "You're in charge. Not a job I want. We'll get Roberts' confession. But I won't be your pawn. I won't do anything to put that smug grin back on McGee's face. And I sure as hell won't set him up to fail, or send him out without someone to watch his back, that's for damned sure."

OoOo

Nate was a scientist. An observer. By nature, a bit reserved, keeping his thoughts and queries inside his own head until he could fill in all the empty corners with data. By training, he was a behaviorist more than a therapist, rapidly becoming somewhat of an expert in the convolutions of minds on both sides of the law - the investigator and the criminal mentalities. He didn't come by his position with the OSP because of luck or connections, but because dealing with the problems of hardened agents and administrators, caring for those who are put in truly awful positions in order to safeguard lives and country, was a calling. A passion. He wanted to help.

It was a high tightrope to walk. On the one hand, Nate needed more information. On the other, he had an urgent desire to step into the middle of the NCIS bullpen and fill it with the scathing analyses of a career psychologist and put every agent in the DC NCIS office on notice.

He had been observing Tony DiNozzo from the moment he reached out one handed to draw Agent Callen into a half-hug in the airport. He'd catalogued the agent's wariness, his solid barriers and his weakened defenses, taken notes on his choice of words, body language, and the thought processes behind his conclusions. While DiNozzo and Callen were dissecting other agent's files and scrutinizing the inner workings of the Los Angeles OSP, Nate had been building up an internal file on DiNozzo, Gibbs, and the local NCIS office. The psychologist in Nate was intellectually inquisitive about the combination of nature and nurture that had molded this man into the type of agent he was, and about the workplace environment that had tipped him into undercover overdrive. And, even though he was only getting one side of what must be a convoluted, years-long story, he didn't like what he saw.

Doctor Mallard had been a big help. His gentle, apologetic greeting and his first hesitant remarks had transformed quickly into deeply insightful observations about personalities and inter-relationships among the higher ranking NCIS agents. Nate nodded to himself, remembering some of the rambling stories the older man had shared, and the whip-sharp humor that he let out to play from time to time. The aging Medical Examiner was an expert profiler, a wise and caring man; that much was easy to see. But, during times of stress, he'd admitted to Nate over early coffee one morning, his anger – and his mouth - ran away with him. Although the man had deflected most of Nate's questions about the other personalities on DiNozzo's team, he had let fall a number of breadcrumbs – whether purposefully or unconsciously, Nate couldn't say – that led to some startling conclusions. Dangerous conclusions. When agents were required to work long hours, face physical and psychological evils, and place themselves in danger in order to guard the public and each other, internal stress could end not just careers, but lives.

So far, Nate had been able to put aside any conclusions, reminding himself that he still didn't have the complete data. Alone in his hotel room for a few hours each evening, he'd transferred his observations and thoughts to paper, highlighting repeated phrases, lingering over anecdotes that told much more about the speaker than he realized. But, here, standing motionless in the background as Tony DiNozzo interacted with his team, his 'friends,' Nate felt a cold chill seep around his bones. One thought pressed forward insistently, no matter how many times he shoved it back, covered it over with psychological terminology, told himself that he was just an observer, taking notes. One thought. "This isn't right."

This didn't feel at all like a law enforcement team. It didn't feel like an agency. It didn't feel like a professional meeting of the minds, or a gathering of comrades who stood together against a common enemy. And it sure didn't feel like a reunion of friends. From the moment the elevator doors slid open to raised heads over crayon-orange dividers, from the layers of tension and unease that seemed to suffocate normal human interactions, to the sound of razor-edged metal tearing upholstery fabric, everything about the NCIS offices felt off. Slightly unreal. As if everyone was playing a role that they weren't quite comfortable with.

Interesting thought. Both coasts, Nate realized, were a bastion of masks and manipulations. Actors in LA and politicians in DC. No wonder the most polished undercover operatives ended up in one of those places. Chicken or egg, he wondered to himself with a small snort.

Tony's curt words and the slap of the knife onto his desktop had only added depth and color to the peculiar atmosphere.

A knife embedded into DiNozzo's chair barely an inch from his hand certainly gave the psychologist's self-control a workout. Nate crossed his arms, his movements slow and easy where he'd half-hidden himself in the shadows beside the broad windows. Tony had barely reacted – a momentary stiffening, a pause in the man's perpetual motion. Callen had clearly taken his cue from that, but he was standing a little too close to where Tony had planted himself, to one side of his desk, unconsciously shielding the other agent with his body.

"Don't you think throwing knives in the workplace is a little, I don't know, insane?" Callen glanced at Tony. "Insane. That's the right word, don't you think?"

"It definitely has merit," Tony replied, nodding, outwardly calm. Easy-going. "Also 'nuts,' 'stupid,' and 'potentially deadly,' especially when the knife thrower wasn't looking where she was aiming."

The petite dark-haired woman had parked herself on the edge of Agent McGee's desk, a faint flush across her cheeks the only sign of her discomfort. A smirk turned her beautiful face into a harpy's mask. "Are you sure I was not looking, Tony? After all, I missed you."

"Somehow, I don't consider that a comfort, Ziva." Tony turned and yanked open a drawer in a tall file cabinet beside his desk, his body turned sideways so that he didn't present his back to his, well, 'enemy' was the only word Nate could come up with. It certainly seemed to fit with the vibe here.

Ziva David. Mossad operative. On loan to NCIS since Ari Haswari's terrorist attack and the death of Agent Caitlyn Todd. Nate had done his homework. But he absolutely could not understand the upside-down thinking of former director Jennifer Sheppard when she had decided this woman would be a fantastic fit for the grieving team David's half-brother had targeted. It made no sense emotionally, psychologically, or operationally. He shot a glance towards the broad expanse visible through the window to his right. Maybe here in DC political motivation meant more than a cohesive unit.

The Israeli woman clearly had a massive chip on her shoulder. Female. Young. Slight. A warrior of a perpetually targeted race would cultivate an attitude of aggression. Of offense before defense. Of utter superiority. Her inclusion onto a law enforcement team could only lead to divides, attacks, personal grudges and professional jealousy. It would be a Mossad operative's nature to divide. To overcome. Nate let out a long, slow breath. Oh how he missed Hanna's humor. Kensi's eye-rolling confidence. Even Macy's soft-spoken support.

Hurrying around the far side of his desk, Agent McGee came to a halt in the no-man's land between the two camps, as if he was some kind of arbitrator or negotiator. Tall and thin, the man carried an air of uncertainty along with him, as if he not only didn't know where he stood with these two, but with himself. Unlike Tony, everything this man was feeling or thinking was plastered all over him. Poor guy, Nate thought. According to everything Tony had revealed, and everything Mallard had hinted at, every single member of this so-called team had a strong, intense personality, a way of dealing with the world that presented as type-A – confident, proficient, headstrong. McGee seemed like the odd man out and Nate wondered how he'd adapted.

"Tony. I, ah, it's good to see you. And, Ziva was just, um, illustrating a point. We weren't expecting you to come by."

The man chose his words carefully, obviously searching for the perfect syntax to put together his sentences like a craftsman. Smart. Quick thinking. Nate nodded to himself. Possibly a people-watcher, an amateur psychologist himself. Most investigators had a little of the head-shrinker in them, some more, some less. He wondered if others saw and heard Agent McGee's hesitation in speech as indecisiveness – or uncertainty – rather than as the churning of a clever mind placing each word with utter precision.

"Relax, McGee," Tony snapped, never looking up from the lone ling of files he was thumbing through, "it's not like I'm going to report her for attempted assault on a federal agent."

"But he could," Callen added, head cocked to one side in false consideration. "I mean, that charge might actually stick." His smile feral, Callen sent an accusing stare in the woman's direction. "There are plenty of witnesses. Another black mark for NCIS and for Mossad."

"That's ridiculous! But, sure Tony, go ahead," McGee frowned, his face darkening with anger, "no, really. I'm sure you'd love to get another dig in against us while you're at it."

Nate's eyebrows rose. Interesting. He added a few more notes to his inner file on Agent McGee. When the team is threatened, he leaps to the attack.

"I didn't hear DiNozzo make that threat, McGee. Did you?"

The tension ratcheted up to a dangerous, stroke-inducing level. The grey-haired, Marine-rigid figure striding down the open stairway couldn't be anyone but MCRT Senior Agent Gibbs. The man's eyes were cold, live weapons with which he strafed the desk area, sending McGee and David scurrying for their chairs. Nate pressed his shoulders against the wall, hoping to sink into its surface, to stay beneath this man's radar. Something told him the next few minutes might answer a wealth of questions.

After a once-over of epic proportions, Gibbs had eyes for only one person.

"G."

"Gibbs."

Same height. Same chin-up determination. Same undercurrent of threat and support. Callen and Gibbs seemed to stand in the eye of the storm, speaking volumes in a language only the two of them understood. Nate was not surprised to see Gibbs blink first.

"Getting everything you need?"

Callen nodded. Once. "Agent DiNozzo has been able to identify a few of our major problems. He wanted to pick up a case file from a few years ago. Thought it might be relevant to our search."

Could Agent Gibbs hear the absolute faith Callen was announcing in DiNozzo? Could he see the way G had included Tony in the confrontation without moving a muscle? Nate had heard stories about Leroy Jethro Gibbs – who in the agency hadn't? But, after living in Tony DiNozzo's pocket for the past few days, he'd come away with nothing but doubts about the agent's vaunted 'gut,' not to mention his ability to notice something that was right under his nose.

"Well, he's good," Gibbs replied, his gaze shifting to DiNozzo's motionless figure. "Wouldn't have him as my SFA if he wasn't."

_Ouch,_ Nate winced. Back-handed compliment. Not really praising his teammate, but praising himself for recognizing the agent's merit. If it was possible, Tony's face became even blanker. If that was Gibbs' usual method for showing approval, no wonder Tony guarded himself so closely.

Callen's silent regard seemed to signal his agreement.

The slam of the file drawer broke the tension, drawing every eye to Tony's now-smiling face. "Good to see you, too, Boss. No need to get all emotional."

Okay, that was interesting. Nate stood straight, his surprise pulling him away from the wall and towards the scene playing out in front of him. Within the nerve-wracking tension, just before what could have easily become angry words or decisively regretful action, Tony had stepped in. Smiled. Joked. He'd pricked the skin of the over-inflated balloon and let out the stifling air.

"While we'd love to stay and chat –" Tony waved a thick file in one hand and jerked his head towards the elevators, "so much to do and so little time."

"Yeah. We've got a case, too."

There was a hesitation in Gibbs' simple words. Something hidden behind his bright, steady gaze. Nate couldn't quite parse it, couldn't tack on a label, an identifier. In any other man it might have sounded like disappointment. Distress. But the ramrod straight body-language said different.

Tony had heard it, too. If Nate hadn't been looking, observing, he might have missed the slight narrowing of DiNozzo's eyes, the fractional tilt of his head. The way his tightly fastened mask rippled in the face of his boss's regard.

"Need any help?"

Nate's eyebrows shot up at Tony's question, at the vulnerability, the way he was exposing himself so openly to rejection. He peered closely at Gibbs, holding his breath for the man's response. The next few seconds might determine if this team – this friendship – had any hope of repair.

"Routine. But-" Gibbs hurried to add, lifting one hand as if to keep Tony from turning away, "I'll call you if we need you."

Tony held the older man's gaze. "Do that."

Gibbs nodded. "I will."

Huh, Nate huffed. He was going to need a bigger notebook.


	8. her heel kept a-rockin

_**A/N: Your reviews fuel my writing! Thank you so much! This chapter continues with my slightly AU version of the episode 'Caged.'**_

Chapter 8

"_If you need help bark like a dog."  
"That's stupid. If I need help I'll shout help."  
― George R.R. Martin, __A Clash of Kings_

McGee was going to give himself five minutes. Five minutes to make this decision. Five minutes would not make a difference one way or the other. He swallowed in a dry throat and tapped a few keys on his phone. There. Timer set.

Knuckles white, eyes wide, his mind spun and spun. C'mon. C'mon. Get it together. What would Gibbs do? And why could Tim only think of a pair of squeaky new shoes and the movie Speed?

Because, he acknowledged, breathing deep. Because his mind always made parallels and comparisons. Took data and slotted it into familiar partitions, looked for the repeated phrases in the code. It was what he did. It was what all scientifically minded people did, or, well, most, anyway. Abby was a law unto herself. But most scientists needed repeated experiments to make any judgments; they had to lay everything down in straight lines and make the connections fit. Use prior research to inform any new theories.

And he couldn't help remembering a hostage situation just like this one – Gibbs taken, out of reach, leaving Tony to make the decisions. Life and death, shoot or wait, use the sniper, use his own wits, use his weird way with words, use all the resources Tony had to save Gibbs, save the kids, and, eventually, save the confused young man with the bomb on his chest.

Tony had done it. Even though his thoughts were nothing like McGee's, his style nothing like Gibbs', and his SOP nothing like their director's, he'd done it. McGee and Ziva had helped, Abby had helped, hell, even hostage-Gibbs had helped. Ducky had told them later that Director Shepard had almost rushed down to the school to take over, not trusting Tony. Not trusting him to save Gibbs, to save the kids. Ducky had talked her out of it.

Tim dropped his head into his hands. Kind of this situation in total reverse. Now, Gibbs and Ziva were behind the walls of the Maryland Women's Prison, Ziva was hurt, and Tony was gone, off with NCIS OSP to trade undercover stories. And Director Vance had handed the whole thing off to Tim and said, "You can handle it. I trust you."

He'd never felt more pride well up in his chest. To have the director of a national law enforcement agency put the lives of more than one person in Tim's hands, to tell him that he had every confidence in him – it was an amazing feeling. Heady. It was everything he'd always wanted to hear his father say. He'd clutched the file folder against his chest, straightened his shoulders and headed back down the steps to the bullpen, intent only on grabbing his bag and his laptop and racing off to Maryland. But, as he'd passed all the empty desks – Ziva's, Tony's, Gibbs' – Tim had realized there was something wrong. A lot of somethings. The data didn't fit. The variables would not line up.

Yes, Tim could handle the stress, he could make hard decisions when he had to. No one strapped on a gun without knowing, deep in his gut, that he could take it out and use it when he had to. Life and death. Those were decisions each of them had to make every day in this job. But, always before, there was someone standing beside him. Behind him. Just around the corner, out of sight. Someone who had his back.

Without conscious thought, Tim's head turned to the left, his gaze coming to rest on Tony's desk. On the ripped fabric of his chair. The empty desktop. The lack of sound or motion or chatter.

When, exactly, had he started wondering if he should call Tony?

Vance had all but insisted that Tim handle this on his own. "You can do this. There's no one out there that I'd trust more with this assignment, Agent McGee. It's your time to shine – Gibbs and I were just talking about how you've been overshadowed for far too long."

An inmate riot at the women's prison? Tony would be all over it. Making inappropriate movie references. Talking about hot women locked up without a man for far too long.

Yeah, Vance was definitely talking about Tony.

Tony, who'd learned how to work alone out there on the crumbling edge of everything possible going wrong whenever he was undercover. Alone was his favorite place. At home. Working in the bullpen after everyone else had gone home. He'd been completely alone during the entire Benoit fiasco. With Jeffrey White. Sergeant Atlas. Out on a Navy ship for months.

Tim could work alone. Computer techs almost always worked alone. Writers, too. Hermits, someone had once called them. His father had had stronger words. But the consequences of making a mistake while coding, or in writing descriptions, had such tiny repercussions. Someone wouldn't die because Tim misplaced a modifier, or left off a right bracket in a long logic string. Someone he worked with, looked up to, someone Tim had accepted as family in place of the one he'd left behind would not be hurt, killed, because of a crappy metaphor. That's what the backspace key was for.

It was great that Vance had faith in him. That the other guys down in Cyber Crime had called him 'Boss.' That Gibbs relied on Tim's expertise both in and out of the field. That Ziva teamed up with him in the face of Tony's overbearing, overblown personality. Really great. But it wasn't enough.

Tim had missed his team. Missed their weird, peculiar personalities. Their quirks. Missed the talk, the pranks, the insults. Missed knowing that, no matter what happened, no matter if there was a mole, or a traitor, or a threat, he'd have all of them right beside him, shoulder to shoulder, pulling each other through. And the way they'd always – usually – most of the time – used each other's strengths to shore up their own weaknesses.

He'd missed Tony.

Each one of them had a part to play. Something unique to offer. Dialogue. Body language. Comic relief. If they were all working this case Ziva would snark at Tony and say something about women not needing men. Gibbs would smack him on the back of the head. And, momentarily, Tim would forget about his screaming blood pressure and the consequences of each word, each syllable, each action, and just get on with the job. Tim shook his head, the guilt that had been doing a few slow laps in the acid-pool of his gut raising its head for another breath.

Getting back to the bullpen – back to the MCRT - hadn't worked out at all like Tim had expected. The tear-jerking end of Tony's favorite Christmas movie flashed before his eyes. Smarmy. Old fashioned. Trite. And yet it appealed to people – to nearly everyone – and was watched over and over and over again. It resonated – it felt right. George Bailey returned to the difficult realities of his life to find that his friends – his family – would always be there for him. That he was the richest man in the world because he had friends.

Damn it – it had been perfect.

If Thom E. Gemcity had been outlining the reunion of the MCRT for his novel it would have felt just like that movie. The characters would have spoken dialogue of friendship and belonging, they'd have made gestures of comfort, of binding up old wounds, and making new connections.

They'd have fit seamlessly. Ignored the way they'd been cut apart so many months ago and then hurriedly stapled back together. It wouldn't have started out with distrust. Secrets. Nasty words and arrogant assumptions. Their usual one-upmanship taken to stratospheric levels.

In other words, it would have been fiction.

Agent McGregor would have acted better. He'd have been honest about how happy he was to have his friends back – his family – and not ashamed of it. He wouldn't lash out to prove his independence, how 'above it all' he was. Show how extra-manly he could be by dismissing his eagerness to reconnect, to get his team back to normal.

Officer Lisa would have been exotic and aloof, showing how glad she was to get back to the USA, to the team that fit her better than her homeland ever would, by her dark, laughing eyes and her light-hearted flirting. She would not have arrived with a giant chip on her shoulder, or a deep-seated need to prove her innate superiority, or clutching more and more secrets to her chest. And she definitely would not have turned playful banter into words the cut far deeper than her knives.

And what about LJ Tibbs? Father-figure, stern but fair, the damaged-yet-stalwart leader would have managed to fit them all together with a few tight-lipped words and a steely gaze. Confident. Strong. With hardly any dialogue at all he'd remind them of what he'd taught them, of their mission to protect and serve those who served the nation, and then knit them together stronger than they'd ever been before. There would be no shadow of failure in those eyes, no hesitation in his steps. No secrets that made him question every single one of his own assumptions and then take out his frustrations on the team. On the senior member of his team, if Tim was going to be honest.

That reunion scene? If Tim had written it, it would have been just like that. And half of the team wouldn't now be held behind prison walls with convicted criminals, counting on Tim alone for their rescue.

Tim closed his eyes and reached blindly for the antacids he'd begun to keep next to his phone.

He could do this alone. Or he could do this the right way. Those were the only choices, his ego notwithstanding.

Tim's hand was already on the telephone when his timer went off.

ooOOoo

Tony stood in the prison's exercise yard, arms crossed, hips shot, leaning against the brickwork with his face raised to the watery winter sunlight. The picture of unconcerned ease. It was all over but the shouting. Ziva and the injured guard were on their way to the hospital. She'd be fine – was already snarling and spitting at all the 'foolishness,' telling the usual stories about Mossad and walking sixteen miles through a sandstorm on two broken legs and how only flabby, pansy-ass Americans needed hospitalization for a concussion. It washed over Tony like a warm breeze, kinda nostalgic. Brought a smile to his face. He shook his head. Hanging out with Callen and Getz had been good for him. Had given him a minute to take a step back, to see his teammates out of well-rested, less bloodshot eyes.

Gibbs was quietly reading the riot act to Warden Halsey about his ultimately fatal 'hands-off' policy with his employees. Quiet was a peculiar state for Tony's boss. Yelling was normal. Yelling meant fear and protection of innocents and frustration. Quiet was dangerous. Drug-dealing in the prison was one thing – a very, very bad thing – but one of your guards assaulting an inmate's underage daughter and using her as blackmail? Yeah. Not too many people would be mourning that guy's death. Halsey was in a world of trouble, trouble named Leroy Jethro Gibbs, and Gibbs was the last guy you wanted scrutinizing your career decisions, especially if a young woman had been hurt on your watch. Whether he knew it or not, Halsey's life as he knew it was over.

Quite a coincidence that Sharon Bellows had snapped when Gibbs and Ziva had been in there, interviewing Celia Roberts about their dead petty officer. Or not. Any distraction would have probably worked. Any change in procedure. Didn't matter that Bellows only had to keep her head down for a few more months and she'd have been released. Someone messes with your family – your child – and the mama bear's claws come out. Tony lowered his gaze to the metal doors across the way. McGee was still in there, a couple of Fibbies watching his back. Celia Roberts may have been a stone-cold killer who liked to cut off men's middle fingers – Tony shivered in the cool, January air – but she had stepped up to take the rap for Bellows. Confessed to the stabbing. With several lifetimes' worth of years on her sentence already, it had been painless.

Tony sniffed and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. Still, Roberts had changed. From crazed hellcat determined to decimate the male population to … to whatever this was. Regretful penitent? Sympathetic friend? It was an eye-opener when Gibbs had escorted her out of those metal doors, one hand raised in surrender, the other holding the bloody shiv. McGee and Tony had exchanged one glance, met their boss's eyes, and understood. It was a rough kind of justice, but it was fitting.

Quite the change.

And if someone like Celia Roberts could change …

Tony was proud of the way McGee had handled himself. Handled this crappy situation. Especially how he'd handled Vance. Whatever had crawled up McGee's butt before Tony finally got back from aboard ship, whatever had turned the guy into McArrogant and McSmug had all but disappeared. Hopefully it wasn't just this case that had stripped Tim back to the pretty good guy and partner Tony remembered – hopefully Tim McGee was back to stay. Time would tell.

He and Callen and Getz had just finished up for the day when McGee called. And how surprising had it been for McGee's number to flash on his phone's screen. Of course, the usual fears rose in Tony's throat. Someone was hurt. Someone was dead. Ziva had killed someone. Again. To find out that Gibbs and Ziva had been taken hostage at a women's prison? That had been unexpected.

Both LA agents had wanted to come. To help. Getz made a good, if rapid, case for a psychologist's expertise. Callen for another good set of eyes. Tony had been grateful. It had warmed his soul that these two men were ready and willing to put themselves into harm's way for his team.

But the best feeling came from Tim's call. Tim's outstretched hand. From the very fact that his teammate had been able to sweep away all of Vance's pretty flattery to see straight through to the problem. Gibbs and Ziva were in trouble and McGee would use every single resource available to help them.

"Good on you, Probie," Tony muttered.

It had been hard to take a step back, to not try to take over as soon as Tim read him in on the situation. Really, really hard. Tim was a good agent, had a great mind, but he didn't know people the way Tony did. Didn't have the instincts a cop – or a DiNozzo – had. But, if there was one thing Tony was absolutely not going to do, it was to act like Gibbs. Waltz in and take over. Brush everyone else aside. Toss McGee's files onto the floor and press the man back into his place with a combo platter of rigid posture and disdain. Not going to happen.

Tony had run interviews. Had liaised with Abby and Ducky. Had kept Getz and Callen in the loop. The psychologist had had some great insights. Tony had driven back and forth from NCIS to the Maryland prison time after time. And when Tim had stood up to Halsey and his brainless macho ideas to take the prison by force, he'd stood right there at the younger man's shoulder and supported him. Now he felt like a proud papa. His little probie was all grown up. And, if he was honest, it felt just a little bit sad.

The metal doors opened with a click and a buzz and McGee walked out between armed guards. Tony made sure his partner saw him, bright gaze locked onto him before he straightened from his slouch against the wall. Relaxed. Utterly unafraid that his teammate had been behind those locked doors, in possible danger without him. Supremely confident that Tim was going to walk out again unharmed and unhurried. It wouldn't be good for the Probie's blood pressure for him to see that Tony was anxious. That, after what happened to Gibbs and Ziva, letting Tim go in there without him had been a freaking huge deal. Another act of faith. Total assurance of Agent McGee's abilities.

"Hey."

"Hey, yourself." Tony fell in beside his partner. "Did Celia give you what you needed?"

Tim grimaced. "Yeah. She is one scary lady."

Nodding, Tony nudged his shoulder against McGee's. "Scary smart. You can read it in those beady eyes."

It didn't take long to cross the small yard. Another buzz-click took them back into the prison's administrative wing. Safe. A lot of walls and locks and armed guards now between them and trouble. Well, Tony raised his eyes, one kind of trouble, anyway. At the other end of the hallway, a ramrod straight figure waited outside the warden's door, long-needed coffee cup in one hand.

Now what?

One hand on his arm stopped him. Tony turned to see Tim thanking the guards and sending them on their way with a few jerks of his chin. He waited.

"Tony. Before we get into this, or Gibbs says something about it being 'about time,' or starts asking questions about my decisions or your involvement and pisses one or both of us off –" The younger man closed his mouth and took a deep breath, obviously reaching for the calm he'd held onto for the duration of this little debacle. "I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for dropping everything and coming when I called. For letting me take the lead."

Tony feigned surprise, eyebrows lifting, and prepared to smile and joke and rattle his partner just enough to take the edge off. One hard squeeze from the hand still attached to Tony's arm stopped him.

"I mean it. You didn't have to do it. Any of it. And, most of all, thanks for putting up with me and my attitude since you came back." Tim's high forehead was wrinkled, his eyes shadowed. "I'm sorry. For my reaction. And my stupid assumptions."

"I don't know what to say, Tim." Tony felt his phony bubble of camaraderie burst. Simple words. Plain language from his brainy teammate. That had been all it had taken to reach behind the mask. They used to be able to communicate. They used to talk – or not talk. Get into each other's heads. Know what the other was thinking for good or for bad. They used to have faith in the other's friendship, even when cases or egos or personality quirks or dark, damaging moods came between them. Always returning to their version of normal. Of respect. Like brothers.

"Say you forgive me," Tim insisted, his voice quavering just a little. "Say you're coming back to the team."

That shadow behind him at the end of the hallway seemed to loom larger. "I- I always intended to, Tim." Yeah. That was honesty. Once, long ago, Tony would have run away. Let someone else deal with the fallout. Head to greener pastures. He'd had that urge when Vance tore him from his grieving family to send him afloat. But he wasn't that Tony DiNozzo anymore.

McGee's sigh seemed to punch another hole in the barrier between them. "I'm glad, Tony."

Tony aimed a playful punch at Tim's shoulder. "Aw, shucks, Probie. You like me. You really like me." For once, Tony's grin didn't feel the least bit false.

Tim did that thing where he was smiling on the inside but his mouth turned down like Kermit the Frog. He nodded. "Let's save the manly hugs for when we're not in the middle of a prison with a lot of trigger-happy Fibbies all around us."

"Sounds like a plan, my Padawan." They turned, squared their shoulders, and headed off for the next hurdle waiting not so patiently down the hall. "I think we deserve pizza after that, don't you?" Tony announced, loud enough to carry.

"As long as it's not double cheese and sausage, Tony. I had acid-reflux so bad last time I couldn't get to sleep."

"Okay, TMI, Timmy. But, to the victor goes the pizza order."

Was Gibbs smiling? No way. It must be all the damned dramatic shadows in this place.

"Is that one of your rules, DiNozzo?"

Tony blinked and reached for a come-back. "Uh, yeah. DiNozzo's rule number nine. Your case. Your lead. Your choice of artery-hardening junk food."

Gibbs sipped his coffee. "A bit of a mouthful, isn't it?"

Outside the high prison walls, Tony followed his boss and teammate towards their cars, stumbling a little in the gravel. "_What the hell just happened_?" he asked himself.


	9. and we danced by the light of the moon

Chapter Nine

"_It's not the load that breaks you down; it's the way you carry it." -Lena Horne_

The dark-haired woman was restless. Her fingers plucked at the thin hospital blanket, while her gaze darted from the closed blinds over the narrow window to the blank face of the television poised in the corner, down to the IV needle in her left arm and then back again. Her face was pale, streaks of darkness beneath her eyes and creases in the corners told him she was still in quite a bit of pain. The careful tilt of her head against the hospital pillow and the bandage at her temple made it clear where that pain was located.

This might not be the best time for Callen to approach Mossad Officer Ziva David, but he was unlikely to have another chance. Tony would be back from filing his report soon and anxious to get on with the search for a new director for the OSP. Getz was waiting back at the hotel to play diversion, but Callen didn't have much confidence in the psychologist's luck in keeping the man occupied.

Tony knew Callen wanted in. That he wanted to dig into the tension among Gibbs' team and come up with his hand around the root of the problem. Gibbs was a friend. Someone Callen had trusted for years. And Tony was rapidly becoming another one. Callen wasn't that good at making friends – the standard paranoia of an undercover agent plus the emptiness of his past didn't add up to someone who played well with others, no matter what his carefully crafted smile might say. Sam Hanna had changed that. Now, maybe Callen could pay that forward and make a small contribution of his own towards team healing.

No one had asked Tony to help the OSP. Insist that he take a TAD assignment to deal with the drama and the dysfunction of the Los Angeles office. Maybe the short-term needs of the OSP had come up at exactly the right time for Tony's benefit, but that didn't mean the agent wasn't doing his best for Callen – and his best was pretty damned good. Tony had brought his experience and insight to the dynamic of Callen's team, an outsider's observations and advice. The wisdom of a trained undercover agent without any of the messy emotional baggage that couldn't help piling up among a close-knit team. A family. Callen was not going to head back to LA without at least trying to do the same for Tony.

He could hear Sam's voice like a super-sized Jiminy Cricket. _"Sure. Of course you'd pick this one to start with. Your head never met a brick wall it didn't like, did it, G?"_

"You know me so well, Sam," he muttered in reply.

Callen waited in the hospital room doorway until he was sure that David knew he was there. It was subtle, but the tension in the slight woman's hands, the deliberately even breathing, and the way she seemed to be holding her eyes open with nothing more than determination and will spoke loudly to someone with Callen's training.

"Officer David, how are you feeling?" Callen moved into the single room, his eyes never leaving her face as he slid the toe of his boot beneath the doorstop and flipped it up. The solid door sighed as it closed behind him.

Confident. Unworried. Even with a concussion, Ziva David was not the least bit concerned about whether or not she could stand up against whatever kind of threat Callen represented.

"I would prefer my own bed, but I am well. Are you here to perform more tests?"

Her right hand disappeared beneath the thin blanket and Callen wondered what kind of weapon she had been able to hide there.

"You know I don't work for the hospital." He swept a glance back and forth, blatantly sizing her up. "We might not have met officially at NCIS, but you know exactly who I am."

David's eyes narrowed. "You are Callen. G. No first name. Lead agent of the Office of Special Projects in Los Angeles."

"And you're Mossad Officer Ziva David. Daughter to Eli David. Only living child of the most powerful man in Israel." He moved closer, keeping an eye on where her hand still rested under the blanket.

"That is debatable."

"What, that you are the only surviving child or that your father is the most powerful man in Israel?" Callen grabbed the rolling stool from under the table and pushed it close to her bed. Not too close. At the exact distance that would communicate confidence without arrogance. Move – countermove – adjust – reset – move again. One glance down, one back up into her eyes, perfectly timed. "You'd think if the second were true, the first would not be."

The flash of darkness across her eyes could have been grief, or hate, or anger. "An easy criticism from a man with no family of his own."

Attack. He'd seen her actions in the NCIS bullpen. He knew her history. She was a good operative. But not a great one. Attack. Attack. Attack. Clumsy. Immature.

"Maybe." Callen settled on the edge of the stool, hands on his knees, his line of sight a few inches below hers. David was injured. He would give her that little bit of height, that small concession to the psychological upper hand. He watched the minute narrowing of her eyes as she recognized his concession. And hated it.

"But the thought must occur to you," he continued, "maybe in the middle of the night, or when you're alone. Those few times when you drop the walls – external and internal – and let yourself be a woman. A child. A human being rather than the operative, the weapon, your father trained you to be. You must get that gut-check, that momentary flash of disbelief. If your father had been a different person, a different man with different, less lofty goals, would you still have a brother and sister at your side?"

"Half-brother," she snapped. "And why is this any of your business?"

Strange. For a well-trained spy, David's nerves were far too close to the surface. It was as if she wore her hurts hung all around her like targets, anxious for someone to touch one – whether deliberately or by accident - so that she could react. Attack. And be righteous in her wrath because, well, _they_ started it. Is this how she kept her semblance of superiority, hung on to her identity as a 'mystery,' a woman who had done it all and seen it all, so much more than simple American agents could possibly imagine? By being touchy? Volatile?

Callen tilted his head, listening to her quick counterattack again. 'Half-brother.' She put distance between herself and Ari Haswari with that title. Was it to protect her reputation – as if his treachery had left her tainted – or to soften her own grief and guilt?

"Right." He shrugged and folded his arms over his chest. "Just making observations. So much of how we relate to people in our adult lives seems to be decided in childhood, don't you think?"

"No."

David tried to slap him away with her denial, disgust and arrogance playing across her features before she turned from him to stare at the black mirror of the television. She'd love to ignore him, to put up an impenetrable barrier of silence. Callen stifled a smile. She could still see him in the tv's reflection – would see any movement he made. It wasn't quite the complete dismissal that she was hoping for.

"No?" Callen grunted. "Then why do we study people? Why do we research, put files together on our marks, and…" He paused, lifting one hand to gesture between them. "Sorry, I call them marks. Mossad probably has another term for the people they target, but it's the same thing, right? We gather up all the information we can on their habits, their finances, their routines, and, especially, their families. Where they grew up. What kinds of relationships they have or had with siblings, with parents. It helps us get into their heads, to know what buttons to push and which subjects to avoid."

Her lips were pressed together hard enough to turn them white. She wanted to react. To tell him what Mossad called their targets. To school him. To show him how much he didn't know. Callen let his eyes slide half-closed. David might have better control if she wasn't hurt. In pain. But he wasn't convinced.

Time to make her sweat. A little salt in the wound. Metaphorically, of course.

"It's been great getting to know Tony a little better. We've worked together before, sure." He nodded, turning it into a bigger gesture than he could have to draw her eye away from the screen and back to his face. Good. He caught her angry gaze and held it. "But this time I've been able to get a better look behind the curtain, if you know what I mean."

"There is nothing behind Tony's 'curtain.'"

There it was. Disdain. Dismissal. But, something else…

"You don't think so? Just a happy-go-lucky guy with more good looks than brains? A guy who thinks he's a smooth operator but never quite makes the sale?"

David's eyes widened comically. "My, you _have_ gotten to know him well."

"Al tagid li shtuioth." Leaning forward, Callen all but hissed the words at her. "We both know it's not true. And I hope that you're too good of an operative to really believe it."

Ziva's hands remained still, but her eyes betrayed her. In a few more minutes she'd either shut him out or make a move that neither of them would be able to pretend hadn't happened. Or someone would interfere. Callen straightened, making sure he didn't look away, towards the clock, for instance. Time was not his friend, he reminded himself. But hurrying Ziva towards an epiphany didn't look like an option.

"You had files on each of Gibbs' team members before you left Israel three years ago. Very detailed files. You knew exactly what happened to Gibbs' wife and child. Understood his instinctive need to protect women. You tapped into McGee's insecurities, his need to prove himself to his admiral father. You knew just as much about Tony. About his absentee father and dead mother. And the commendations he's earned for himself on every police force he worked for."

Callen had done his own homework. Talked to his own sources. Ziva David didn't strike him as a fool; her kneejerk reactions and prickly, land-mine laden personality were hiding something. The self-imposed blindness to Tony's abilities was just another symptom, another piece of evidence to add to Callen's data pool. He watched her closely, adding up each reaction. "So, the question becomes, why do you act like you really believe he's the clown he appears to be?"

"He is a clown." Anger. "A dead weight." Fierce denial. "He is useful enough to collect evidence or charm foolish women into telling him their secrets."

There. That same little spark of emotion. Of truth. Callen was careful to keep any reaction from his face. _Keep talking_, he urged silently.

"But he is incapable of anything else." She flung her dark hair over her shoulder and flinched, the pain stealing her breath for a moment. "He cannot see what is right under his own nose."

And, like a key clicking into a lock, Callen understood. "You mean, you hope he can't."

"What?" Ziva pressed a fist to her forehead, either trying to push the pain away or to force Callen to stop out of pity.

"You have to think Tony's blind, that he's useless has an investigator. If you didn't – if you let yourself see him as a capable agent, you'd see that he was someone who was so used to masks that he could see beneath yours as easily as breathing. And that would destroy you."

She closed her eyes and laid back against the pillows, one hand pale and trembling where it lay on the white blanket. So small. Almost frail. Callen shook his head.

"Do not deceive yourself," she hissed. "You do not know me. You do not know anything about me, my family, or my training."

"Yeah, yeah, very mysterious," Callen smiled. David's Mossad persona, her own worn and battered mask, was larger than life. Mata Hari, a masked ninja, and an inscrutable mystic all rolled into one. She held it at arms' length between herself and those around her, labeled herself a Pandora's box with a neon 'don't touch' sign and warnings written large and red but in languages no one could understand. A package booby-trapped by physical skills and an even deadlier tongue.

A thin ripple of air danced across the back of Callen's neck as he leaned forward. "'No one could possibly understand,'" he quoted her, with just the right measured disdain. "You do know that it's the last resort of someone who can't think of anything else to say."

"I do not have to say anything. You are the one who is arguing, who came here to try to convince me of something."

She lay quietly, the tiny drops of sweat on her brow the only sign of her fiercely guarded emotions, her shallow breaths barely making her chest rise and fall. If he had been anyone else, Callen might have been convinced that she was finished. Exhausted. Out of ammunition.

But he wasn't anyone else. He was No First Name Callen. A man without a past. His entire life had been an act, a mask, one manipulation after another. He'd learned it as a child, his only intention to survive. He'd honed it and sharpened it as an adult, and, to his surprise, other goals had become more important. To serve. To protect. To keep his partner – his family – intact. No wonder he and Tony got along so well. It took one to know one.

In comparison, Ziva's masks were paper-thin and fragile as gossamer. And that, he suddenly knew, was why she hated Tony. Not out of jealousy, or because he was, in some ways, better, but because the masks Ziva wore were not to hide her vulnerabilities from others, but to prove to herself that she did not have any. She had no intention of letting anyone in, inside her shields, because then she might be forced there herself. And she might see things she did not want to see.

"Gibbs? I am tired. Can you make him go away?"

Callen's eyebrows twitched, but he didn't turn. Damn. Time was up.

"Maybe you should listen, Ziva."

The distinctive cologne of coffee and sawdust drifted closer. Callen began to rise but a solid hand on his shoulder held him in place.

David turned her dark, vulnerable gaze on the man at Callen's side. "Gibbs?"

The older agent stepped forward, into Callen's line of sight, but still keeping back far enough to make it clear there were two sides in this room, and Ziva had one all to herself.

"Came here to clear some things up," Gibbs said, extra-large coffee cup held loosely in one hand. "Looks like Agent Callen started without me."

Callen turned a smile up at the older man. "Hope you don't mind, Gibbs. Just keeping the seat warm."

Gibbs tightened his hand on Callen's shoulder and then let it fall. "Nope. Not surprised."

"You are not surprised that this man has come to torment me? To try to 'teach' me about Tony? About a man I've worked with for years?"

David still wouldn't look at him, Callen noted. Kept those doe-eyes right on target. Callen waited, cataloguing the changes in the woman since Gibbs had entered the room. Eyes wider, warmer. Shoulders relaxed. She leaned forward, both hands on top of the blanket now, secure in the knowledge that no weapon was needed. Her palms were up and open, as if she was a child waiting for someone to take her hand.

For a father.

Callen set his heel to the floor and rolled the stool back a few inches so that he could take it all in. David was appealing to Gibbs as if she was a cherished daughter, hurt and in pain, menaced by this outsider, this interloper to the family. Gibbs' next words would tell him everything he needed to know.

ooOOooOOoo

Tony stared at the computer screen, chin in his hand. He'd been sitting here. Staring. Just staring. No typing or reading email or playing games. Hell, the computer wasn't even on. Just a flat black screen sitting there on his desk. A stray thought caught at him. After the zombie apocalypse, or the next ice age, or the invasion from non-friendly aliens, when future junk-pickers waded through the trash of the 21st century, what will they think of the thousands of these flat black things? They'd find them all over, in every room of every house, every office building, every hospital. Big ones, little ones, huge ones like up in MTAC. Tiny ones people carried around with them. "Ancient Earth guys sure loved these black flat things," they'd say to one another.

He was in a weird mood.

Pizza eaten, reports signed off, McGee and Gibbs had left. Gone home. Gone somewhere. It was late. Probably. He'd have to move to look down at his watch, but he knew that the window to his left was dark. Not empty, though. It had snowed earlier in the day, and the lights from the Navy Yard would be glistening off of the white mounds the plows had pushed up at the ends of the parking lot. Pretty. Just an inch or so. Nothing dangerous. It would likely be gone in a few days. That's how the weather rolled here on the edge of DC. Between the river and the bay, not a lot of snow hung around to brighten up the landscape.

Columbus, Ohio. Now that was a snow city. It fell like thick, white curtains. Like someone had upended a gigantic bag of tiny puffy marshmallows. It fell and it fell and it fell. Peoria was no different. In cities like that you learned how to live with it. They didn't have snow days and Code Green days and work from home days. You got up early, shoveled off the car while the heater and defrosters were going full blast, shoveled the driveway, and you went to work. Especially first responders. Doctors. Nurses. Fire fighters. And cops. Every once in a while you'd get snowed in, but the weather forecasters could see it coming, and you'd bunk down at the precinct with all the other guys so you could man the phones and hop in the four-wheel drive cars with chains on the tires if someone needed you. But, Tony nodded his head against his hand, you'd be surprised how a blizzard would keep crime down.

Philadelphia was an eye-opener. An inch of snow and everybody was listening to the radio, waiting for the schools to close. Crazy. Yeah, that described the drivers, too. For the first few weeks of his first winter there, Tony would rant, shake his head, tell the other cops about what real snow was like. How these measly little flurries had nothing on Ohio and Illinois. He'd feel all superior and make fun of the guys who didn't own an ice scraper and broke their credit cards trying to chisel out a tiny little clear spot on their windshields, a porthole to peer out of while they careened down the Schuylkill Expressway.

And then they sent him under with the Macaluso crime family and Tony kind of forgot any other life for a while. Forgot about playing football at Ohio State. Forgot about being shipped off to the military academy. Forgot that he had grown up with privilege and canopy beds and sailor suits and learned to be a hood down to his bones. He'd complained about the cold. Cursed PennDOT. Bitched that the salt on the roads ruined his paint job. Fitting in - it had kept him alive. And after he watched them drag Mike Macaluso off in handcuffs after sentencing, swearing revenge at the guy in the witness box who'd put him away, the guy wearing the shiny new detective's shield, Tony had forgotten about silent, snow covered landscapes. A cop-shop full of guys pulling an all-nighter at the phones between snow-ball fights. Marshmallows and hot chocolate and camaraderie.

He took a deep breath and refused to think about Baltimore.

"I am happy to see you're still here, Anthony."

Tony looked up, surprised that he didn't hear the tell-tale 'ding' of the elevator, or the ME's quick footsteps. "Still here, Ducky." He smiled. "Physically, anyway."

"Ah. I see." A half-smile flashed across the older man's face. "Winter nights are quite good for ruminating, aren't they, my boy?" His coat slung over one arm, Ducky set his wide-brimmed hat down on Tony's empty desk. "I find that a nice glass of Glenfiddich Reserva 1978 beside the fire makes the perfect setting for thinking deep thoughts."

Tony snorted. "Not sure how deep my thoughts are, Ducky. In fact, I'm pretty sure no one has ever accused me of particularly deep thinking."

"Well, then, they should all stand corrected."

Pushing himself back from the desk, Tony cocked his head to one side. "You know, I'm still me, Ducky. Still Tony DiNozzo, ex-jock, ex-cop, very special easily distracted agent who makes wild leaps of logic and talks too much. Deserves the head-slaps. Plays games on my phone." He slid his top desk drawer open. "Eats candy." The second one. "Keeps a supply of super-glue on hand." And the third one. "Has a deep-seated hero-worship for a certain ex-gunnery sergeant, no matter how much he lives up to that second B."

Ducky's eyes twinkled in the low light of the darkened bullpen. "Well, thank heavens for that. I wouldn't want to think that some extremely unfortunate statements and unfair treatment from colleagues and friends would transform you into anything other than the man I've come to know." He leaned in, whispering. "Candy, distractions, and ill-timed pranks notwithstanding."

Tony raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"Well, perhaps I am simply trying to catch up," Ducky added. "Laying in some extra respect for the cold winter nights ahead. Just in case I grow too busy or too complacent and forget to appreciate your skills beyond logic-leaping and trivia-touting."

"I can live with that." Tony lifted his chin, expecting to take one on it. "And the hero worship? What does the eminent specialist of the psychological profile say about that?" He didn't mean for it to come out so raw. So honest.

The glimmer in the older man's eyes didn't dim so much as take on a deeper hue. "Every one of us needs heroes, Anthony. But it is always good to remember that our heroes are also real men with real men's foibles and failings."

Tony had already begun to nod, to accept the truth of Ducky's statement and move on. Move on, get over it, do the job. Gibbs was Gibbs, for good or for worse. McGee was a friend who sometimes went a bit overboard with the intellectual arrogance. Ziva was … well, that Mossad-ninja-spy-mystery was somebody else's puzzle right now. Just like Scarlett O'Hara, he'd think about that 'tomorrow.' Plus, as he'd just reminded the ME, Tony was hauling along his own baggage full of annoying quirks to the team party. Colleagues. Friends. Co-workers – whatever. Today, working the case at the prison, had reminded him of just how well all of their faults and assets fit together to make them an outstanding team.

He'd get over this. Put it behind him. Come back to this desk, to his role, with his head held high.

But, apparently, Ducky wasn't finished.

"That said, Anthony, it does behoove us, from time to time, to speak up for ourselves. To command respect and to demand that our closest friends, who should see us the most clearly, open their eyes and close their mouths. If only for a moment." Ducky stepped around Tony's desk and placed one hand on his shoulder. "Family can sometimes be our harshest critics. Those who can and do hurt us the most deeply. But," his hand squeezed tight, "beyond the over-familiarity, and beneath the caustic words and casual wounds they dole out to us, they will always be our staunchest supporters."

"You sure you don't have one of those old-fashioned night shirts on under that suit, Ducky?" Tony couldn't help compare his aging, British friend with good old Clarence. Wise. Gentle. Kick-ass when necessary. "I mean, you are telling me that it is, after all, a wonderful life."

"I suppose I am," Ducky laughed. "However, just as George Bailey was forced to deal with the bank examiner, his forgetful Uncle Billy, and the nasty Mr. Potter's machinations," Ducky lifted his eyes to the balcony and Vance's office, "when he returned to his real life, you will, I'm afraid, have no fairy-tale ending to this story."

"Too much to ask for, huh?"

Ducky took up his hat and walked off, his gentle laughter speaking for itself.

Was that the elevator bell?

_**A/N: So many thanks for all your reviews, favorites, and follows! Your response is utterly fantastically terrific. I hope to continue to respond to all reviews personally, but, until then, please know that my gratitude is humongous.**_

_**The Hebrew phrase that Callen uses translates as: "Stop talking nonsense."**_


	10. come out tonight, come out tonight

Chapter Ten

"_Only the guy who isn't rowing has time to rock the boat." – John-Paul Sartre_

Gibbs listened. Watched. He heard G's attempts to get Ziva to open her eyes. To look past her assumptions about Tony, about teamwork, about what it means to watch your partner's back.

Assumptions. You'd think by Gibbs' age he would have learned how to do it. How to knock it into junior agents' heads that making assumptions could kill you. Assuming that the cowering suspect was beaten. Assuming a rape victim was so far gone in shock that she wouldn't react to her attacker. Assuming every military recruit was a loyal patriot and could not possibly be hiding a terrorist agenda.

Hell, Gibbs was as guilty as any of them. He'd screwed up with Jenny, underestimating the depth of her obsession, and the expert way she'd preyed on DiNozzo's wavering confidence after Gibbs' ringing two-word endorsement. "You'll do." Assumed that a hiatus on a Mexican beach would knit up all the cobwebs in his head and shuffle the memories back into place. More than that, Gibbs had assumed that he could walk back into the bullpen, into his job, as if no one had changed. As if DiNozzo wouldn't grow into his leadership role. As if McGee wouldn't come to like being an SFA. As if the world would have stopped turning and the sun stopped rising just because Leroy Jethro Gibbs had called a time-out.

He'd screwed up with Vance, too. Hadn't trusted the man's motives for a second, but he'd trusted his position – his expertise. Trusted that the Intel Vance held about the mole would be complete. And that the mole-hunt was truly a joint mission between them. Why? Because Vance had, supposedly, laid all of his money down on Gibbs and his gut. It was a heady thing, that trust. Blew up your ego like a hot air balloon. Until lying to his team seemed like the reasonable thing to do.

Never assume. Always verify. The list of times Gibbs had ignored his own rules, especially this one, was long. Should have verified Vance's power to immediately transfer McGee and DiNozzo without their approval. Should have verified Ziva's mental readiness to come back to work behind a desk at NCIS. And, by God, he should have checked Langer's guilt – and Lee's innocence – beyond a keycard, tears, and a pool of blood.

Even after he'd been kicked in the ass by both Ducky and by Callen, Gibbs had done it again. He'd assumed that, in a moment of stress, a member of his team would follow his direct order to stand down instead of lashing out, following her own agenda. Not the first time. Not by a long shot. And, damn it, if he was being honest with himself he knew it would not be the last. And now he was standing in a hospital room, catching on to the danger a hell of a lot too late. His agent concussed, one prison guard injured, and Ziva still couldn't see the light. Gibbs shook his head and let the door slowly close behind him.

Gibbs tried to see Ziva through Callen's eyes. A foreign agent. A weapon with a hair-trigger. A loner – unable and unwilling to fit into a team. Someone who still, even after three years at NCIS, considered herself superior to the foolish rules and mandates of this agency and this country.

When the dark, vulnerable gaze turned to him, all Gibbs saw was Ziva's attack on the angry crowd of inmates in the women's prison. Her cold, narrowed eyes as her hands struck out. And he heard, again, the sickening thud as her head was slammed into the concrete floor when the mob of violent women overwhelmed her so superior skills by sheer weight.

"Gibbs."

And now, in her voice, he didn't hear regret. Or apology. Or the slightest recognition of her mistake – of her arrogance – that had taken a bad situation and turned it into a prison riot.

Now, all Gibbs heard was manipulation.

"Came here to clear some things up," he said, moving up beside Callen's position. He squeezed the agent's shoulder, hoping to communicate the passing of the baton. This was Gibbs' problem. Gibbs' team. It was about time he handled it. "Looks like Agent Callen started without me."

Callen grinned at him, unrepentant. "Hope you don't mind, Gibbs. Just keeping the seat warm."

"Nope. Not surprised." G was a good friend. Good agent. Gibbs felt a half-smile twitch against his lip. Reminded him a lot of DiNozzo. Stepping in where angels feared to tread.

"You are not surprised that this man has come to torment me? To try to 'teach' me about Tony? About a man I've worked with for years?"

Ziva's posture, her deliberately whining tone, sent the hairs on the back of Gibbs' neck to attention. He barely noticed when Callen shifted away, drifting off on the rolling stool to the edge of the room, beyond the confrontation. Gibbs' focus was here. Now. On the problem staring him in the face and daring him to blame her. To change. To step out of the father/daughter roles that she'd set him up for. The dynamic that set her apart from McGee and DiNozzo.

He speared her with his glare. "It's about time someone did."

She flinched as if Gibbs had slapped her. No head-slaps for Ziva. For Kate. Jenny. Hitting a woman – his hands weren't built for that. His head couldn't fathom it. Callen would call him a dinosaur, jab at his old-fashioned, stubborn chauvinism. DiNozzo would smile and remind him of some women who could clean his clock. Old dog, old tricks, isn't that what he'd told Stan just a few days ago?

'_And just what has that gotten you, Gunny?'_

What did Gibbs have? Old tricks, old habits. Ruts. Assumptions. His precious gut. Yeah, he huffed, that had worked out so well lately. Michelle Lee. Another young, vulnerable woman. Bankston had picked the right agent to use to infiltrate the MCRT, to steal secrets, and to get so far under Gibbs' skin he didn't know if he was coming or going. Poor, little Michelle, shaking and crying, had to kill Langer to defend herself. And he'd fallen for it.

Ziva leaned back, widening the space between them. Obviously giving herself a few seconds to adjust to Gibbs' harsh tone. "You both pretend that Tony is the most important thing in the world. As if giving in to his tantrums is vital to the continuation of this agency or to this team." She flung her hands in the air. "It is ridiculous."

Gibbs nodded once. "You're right. DiNozzo is not the center of the universe." He waited, letting the relief flood her eyes and a smile make its way across her face. Then he struck. "But he is my Senior Field Agent. And he, at least, knows how to follow orders." He tossed the empty coffee cup in the trash can, making sure it hit the side with a loud bang. "Why is it that I can't expect the same from you?"

"Gibbs," Ziva sighed. "I am sorry. You know my training – you better than any other." She tried a knowing smile. "It is hard for those of us trained to action, knowing that one's reflexes can – and have – been the only thing standing between life and death, to stand down."

Gibbs wasn't a teacher. Had always known that about himself. In the Corps, he'd never put in for Drill Instructor Training. Making Marines - he didn't have the temperament for it. He did his job. Followed orders. Worked well in his unit. Words didn't work for him – never had. Marines watched. Listened. Learned. Practiced. And then did it over and over again until it was ingrained. Driven deep. Didn't have to think about it. That kind of teaching made for successful snipers. Soldiers.

"_Gibbs doesn't teach. You learn."_

He'd heard Tony say it. To Blackadder. To Kate. To McGee. He'd tried with Ziva, too. But Ziva didn't think she had a thing to learn. Not from a Marine. Not from a cop. Not from anyone. For every one of Gibbs' rules DiNozzo had quoted to her, Ziva had an Israeli expression. Or a story. Some scenario where she came out looking like a worldly-wise veteran assassin and the rest of them paled in comparison.

Listening to McGee and DiNozzo, watching them work together today to get Gibbs and Ziva from the women's prison, Gibbs didn't have to wonder who had done the real teaching. Who had stepped in and stepped up, delivered more than head slaps and monosyllabic rules to his junior agent. McGee had done a damn fine job and Gibbs couldn't take much of the credit. Tony had taken the role of Senior Field Agent and filled it with all of the things Gibbs himself was missing. A buddy. A friend. A cheerleader. Someone who could – and would – push and prod his fellow agents without threats, without stares; someone who taught them to anticipate, to think, and, by his own example, to watch out for each other.

Gibbs didn't teach. And, to compound the problem, Ziva wouldn't learn.

"Tell me, Ziva. If it hadn't been you. If that had been, say, DiNozzo in that prison with me. Do you think he would have followed my orders?" Gibbs hitched up his pants and rested one foot on the low rail of her bed. He bent forward to lean one elbow on his knee. "Or would he have kept fighting. Like you did on the Domino mission."

Gibbs had told them not to fight. Not to respond. The guards in the secure facility had live weapons and he at least made sure that his team would not get hurt. But they had. DiNozzo took a gun butt to the face. Ziva, worse.

Ziva pursed her lips. "Of course Tony would have followed your orders. It is his nature. He requires someone to lead him, to tell him what to do." She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. "_We_ do not have that 'follower' mindset."

Looking at the woman in the hospital bed, her hands slowly smoothing the blanket over her lap, confidence – inarguable certainty – bright behind her narrowed eyes, Gibbs' 'watching and waiting' finally paid off. For the first time, he saw it. Saw her. Not as a daughter. Not as a frail, vulnerable woman, alone in a strange land. Brotherless. Sisterless. Having given up home and family for him – for Gibbs. Now he saw her as she saw herself. As she had always seen herself. Hand-picked by Eli David and Jenny Sheppard. Reminded again and again of her superiority, of her training. 'The sharp point of the spear.' Seamlessly taking over the desk of an agent who had fallen to her own brother's gun.

Ziva believed she and Gibbs had a special bond. A connection deeper and stronger than any other. An unspoken oath. Blood brothers, like they used to do as kids. 'Pinky promise swear,' Abby would say.

Ziva believed that she was Gibbs' equal.

Gibbs turned his head away, muscles trembling as he clenched his teeth, biting back a shout. He was caught by Callen's steady stare, the air between them all but rippling with mutual understanding. He watched as the other agent nodded, G's emotions held securely behind a bland mask of professionalism. Then Callen rose, dusted off his trousers, and stood, waiting, offering, without any words, anything that Gibbs needed. He'd stay. He'd leave. He'd go for coffee – or bourbon. For an instant Gibbs saw DiNozzo there, broadcasting the exact same promises. Just as he had done so many times before.

_That_ was a connection. An understanding. A bond. Gibbs closed his eyes for just a moment and then nodded back at Callen. Releasing him. This was Gibbs' problem. His own behavior had caused this. And, by damned, he was going to make it right.

A muscle beside Callen's mouth twitched before he turned away, and Gibbs knew who would be waiting for him in the hospital parking lot when he was finished. Good. Time to fix this. Past time.

Before the door drifted closed Gibbs had moved to stand beside Ziva's bed, his feet planted wide, hands loose at his sides. He used the emptiness of his expression and the antiseptic quiet of the room to reach her. To show her that he wasn't smiling, that something had changed – that, starting now, everything would change.

He watched as the silence drained away her confidence. Her arrogance. Watched the darkness replace the light behind her eyes. Saw her backtrack through their words, replaying Gibbs' conversation, Callen's arrival, and her mistakes at the prison. And he knew the moment she realized she had said something wrong. Done something wrong. This time, it was Gibbs who used the silence like a weapon, who drew the battle lines, and set up the combatants. This time, there were words that had to be said. Plain and clear. Unlike Palmer, Gibbs didn't have a choice. And precious little hope that these words would make a bit of difference.

"I'm going to talk now, Ziva. And you're going to listen."

She nodded, outwardly contrite. Shoulders straight. Ready to absorb one of Gibbs' short, to the point lectures. Not this time. This time that wasn't good enough.

"You are going to listen, Officer David. Listen hard. You will hear every word I'm going to say, not waste my time by thinking up responses or counter-arguments. I don't want to hear them. Not now. Not later. Not tomorrow or next week. I don't want to walk into my bullpen to hear you using these words as accusations. I do not want to find you repeating what I'm going to say to Abby, or Ducky, or McGee, trying to get their sympathy. Do you understand?"

Her eyes had widened as he'd begun to talk before narrowing down to slits. She tried to hide it – the anger, the haughty, sneering rage that filled her. Tried to hide behind that childlike trust. But the finger-paints were smeared, changing her mask of 'beloved daughter' into 'worldly assassin' and back again before Gibbs' eyes. No way she could be both and she seemed unwilling – unable – to choose just one.

Enough. Time to be heard. "Answer me!" he shouted.

"Gibbs!" The word snapped out of her almost against her will. "I am listening!"

"Then hear this. You're missing a vital piece of information, Officer David. You've overlooked or ignored something that is screwing up your ability to work on my team. To follow orders. To even hear orders when a superior officer voices them. Me." He pointed to his chest. "DiNozzo. Both higher than you in the chain of command. Not your friends. Not your subordinates. Not even your partners. No. Tony and I outrank you, David. Do you hear that?"

"Technically, of course-" her smile was starting to bloom again.

"No." Gibbs took a step forward, forcing her to look up at him. "Not technically. Not on paper. Here and now in real life. And every damn day you take a breath on my team. You get that?"

"Gibbs, you cannot mean that. We know better, you and I."

Leaning in, Gibbs smiled. "I'm beginning to believe you don't know shit, David."

He stepped back again, letting the fear flush her arrogance down the toilet. And to get himself back under control. Calm. Restrained. Gibbs stared down at her. "What does Abby call me?"

"Wh – what?" Ziva was reeling, hit from too many directions at once.

"What does Abby call me, Officer David?"

She swallowed, frowning. "Gibbs. She calls you Gibbs."

"And Ducky?"

"Also Gibbs. Or Jethro." Ziva's head was shaking back and forth, confusion forcing her answers.

"What about McGee?"

"I do not underst-"

"Answer me!"

"Boss. He calls you Boss. As does Tony."

"So did Stan. And Blackadder. Reynolds and Farmer before them. Lee, Keating, and Langer."

"Yes." She nodded, hands clenched together in her lap.

Gibbs' voice came out in a hissing whisper. "And why do you think that is?"

He watched her struggle to bite back some nasty remarks about lapdogs or men who were built to be followers rather than leaders. She met his eyes. "It is about respect. You do not like people to call you 'sir.' They acknowledge your superiority instead with 'boss.' Yes?"

He nodded, slow and steady. "And Abby and Ducky? Do they not respect me?"

"Of course they do. But Abby is … Abby is not a field agent. She does not regard you as a Marine. A commander. But a protector. A fa- a mentor," she hastily corrected, eyebrows dipping. "And Doctor Mallard is both older and a vaunted professional. You have known each other for years. He considers you a friend, an equal. Someone with past life experience similar to his own."

"Yeah." Gibbs felt some of the tension dissipate. Surely she could see it now. He'd all but forced her face into the truth. "And what do you call me, Ziva?"

"I – I call you Gibbs."

"And just why is that?" Gibbs tilted his head, encouraging her to think. To process. To get it. "You aren't my friend. We don't share 'past life experience.' And I'm sure as hell not your father."

"But we do. We are. Similar," she stammered. "We share-"

"No, Ziva, we don't." His voice was softer. Less strident. "Listen, Ziva. We don't share some dark secret that binds us together in some mysterious way. Plenty of people know you shot Ari in my basement. Vance. Eli. Ducky. DiNozzo. They all know. It doesn't make us buddies. And it sure as hell doesn't make you my equal."

Her face was pale, her eyes desperately seeking something behind Gibbs', something that just wasn't there.

Time to cut to the chase. "Do you even respect me a little, Ziva?"

"Gibbs! How can you ask me that?" There was a woundedness in her voice. A little girl's pain. A woman's insecurity.

Gibbs couldn't heal those injuries. Not right now. Maybe not ever. But he could maybe put her on a path that wouldn't re-open them again and again. Help her live long enough to find her own solutions.

"You disobeyed a direct order today. And it sure as hell wasn't the first time."

"I am sorry. It – " she swallowed what might have been another excuse or a promise to never do it again. She straightened, looking him steadily in the eye. "I will do better."

Good. "Good," he echoed out loud. "Because, if you don't do better, if you don't start putting yourself in your place as a subordinate member of my team, I'll be doing it for you."

She raised her eyebrows. "Like this."

It wasn't a question, but Gibbs was damn well going to answer it. "No. Not like this. You get one personal talk outside the team. From now on, I'll be ripping you a new one in public. In front of anyone who happens to be in earshot. And," he made sure she was still listening, still watching, "I'll be giving DiNozzo permission to do the same."

She chewed on the reprimand, on his threats – his promises – and Gibbs wondered if she'd spit it back at him or have the strength to swallow it down.

"So this really has been all about DiNozzo after all."

Gibbs snorted, shaking his head. It was probably as good a reaction as he could have expected. He headed towards the door and turned to speak over his shoulder. "No, Ziva. This is about getting another chance to do things right. DiNozzo just happens to be the one who got the snowball rolling."


	11. and dance

_**A/N: Thank you all so much for your comments, reviews, favorites, and follows! It was great to hear your thoughts about the Ziva confrontation in the last chapter. I hope you'll let me know what you think of this conversation as well. Almost finished!**_

Chapter Eleven

"_Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors. And the people there see you differently, too. Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving."_ – Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky (RIP)

Tony leaned back, raising the beer to his lips again. The room seemed different. Felt wrong – like one of Alice's rooms after she'd eaten the oh-so-trustworthy 'Eat Me' cake. Like the couch was too big, crammed wall to wall under the window where, if you measured it, it couldn't hope to fit. The bookshelves rose too high for the low ceilinged bungalow. Everything was hugging the walls like there was going to be a big square dance over there in front of the kitchen. Except for the coffee table. Disconnected. Adrift. It was set out to sea all alone. Huh. Wonder what that felt like.

Leaning in, Tony spread his hand on the faded wood. Traced a long, soft scar along the edge. A blunted corner. The table was old. Worn. The only piece of wood in Gibbs' house that looked like people had used it like a piece of furniture, not an artwork. Rolled dice here for kids' games. Set out snacks. Ate steaks. Put down a cup of coffee. Once upon a time a child put a cold drink there, where a water ring still glowed, pale and perfect.

Gibbs' house. Center of his universe. Holder of his memories. Talk about ghosts. Tony had felt it the first time he'd stepped over the threshold to find his boss asleep under his boat in the basement. The people who'd lived here seemed to linger right around the corner. Turn your head and there they'd be. Shannon – shaking her head over some stupid thing Gibbs had said. Kelly – banging the back door open and skipping through the kitchen. No, not ghosts. Tony let his hand linger another moment, smiling. Angels. If Gibbs' wife and daughter hung around, they'd be acting as guardian angels. Bright lights in the darkness.

He snorted a silent laugh. That might explain all those close calls Gibbs walked away from. Someone – two someones – were still looking out for him. Saving him from himself. Just like Clarence. He wiped a drop of condensation from the brown bottle before it could fall on the table below. No. He shouldn't leave a mark here. That wasn't his place. If three ex-wives could come and go without a trace, a simple employee should clean up after himself. Tony had always been pretty good at that – leaving quickly and quietly. From his dad's house. Peoria. Philadelphia. Baltimore. From a lady's bed. Or a friend's couch.

'Don't get too comfortable.' It had been a good life motto. Had served him well. Until he got here, to NCIS. To Gibbs' house.

It was right before they met Kate. After Blackadder. Working as a two-man team again had run them both ragged. Their last case left Gibbs with a shiner and Tony with a bullet graze and a busted lip. But Gibbs had offered him his couch when the electricity in Tony's apartment had gone out. And Tony was just tired and beaten enough to accept. And, for some reason, Tony had relaxed. Stopped being careful. Wrapped the warmth of this house and Gibbs' offer of friendship around him and gotten comfortable. It had taken a particularly hard head-slap, some choice language, and Gibbs' throwing Tony's scattered belongings at him for Tony to get the message.

Funny. Gibbs had snatched Katie from the Secret Service not long after that. Like he was looking for a buffer – a third wheel for the NCIS bicycle built for two. Someone to disrupt the vibe, to play spoiler. Gibbs became more of a boss and less of a partner. And adding McGee gave him that much more distance. It seemed like days would go by and he wouldn't say one word to Tony, as if he had to save them up, use them sparingly now that he had to deal with so many people.

Maybe Tony had overstepped. Gotten too close. Left more than a whiff of expensive cologne and dirty socks. Interrupted the lingering feel of Gibbs' lost family. He rose from the couch, turning to make sure the dent from his body slowly disappeared. He put the pillow back where he'd found it. Looked around – did a visual inspection as if it were a crime scene – and found no trace of himself. Good. He moved towards the kitchen – to a wooden chair. Couldn't leave much of an impression there.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd come, couldn't fill in the time and the circumstances. Before he'd gone off a-floating with the Navy. Long before Jenny died. Surely he'd been here since Mexico. Since Gibbs' gruff return. Since the teetering tower of Tony's lies during the Grenouille fiasco exploded on an MTAC screen. It hadn't been that long, had it?

He took another small sip of the warming beer. Maybe Tony hadn't taken the first step backwards, but he hadn't exactly tried too hard grabbing for a friendship – an understanding – that was kept dangling just out of his reach, either. The two-man team had worked – even exhausted and wounded, it had worked. Adding Katie – Tony's smile was warm, nostalgic – Kate Todd, snarky and sarcastic sister, had worked, too. There had been a warmth, a family feeling, and a certainty that the three of them could handle anything. Gibbs' might have grown more silent, more cold, but his temper had been even-handed. Both of them got the lectures. The jibes. When they were lucky, the smiles.

Kate's death seemed to kill a lot of things. On the bad days – the really bad days – Tony could still taste the blood in his mouth. Yeah. Those were the days he was most likely to earn a head-slap. Overcompensation. Joke. Laugh. Play the fool. Shallow people didn't feel that kind of loss. Disconnected people didn't care. And when he looked across the aisle towards her desk, the dark-haired woman who sat there wore a different face. Sometimes it surprised him so much that his breath caught in his throat and he had to choke back the vomit.

Maybe Tony had changed. Maybe the pretense had turned to truth. Cared less. Hid his heart behind his shiny masks. Maybe he hadn't reminded his teammates – his boss – enough that he was still a good investigator. Still had the chops to solve cases. To intimidate the bad guys. To come up with the leads. He'd gotten lazy. Expected them to see him clearly while he was busy doing everything he could to throw up a smokescreen. Tony nodded to himself. That's what Ducky had been trying to say, right? Time to stand up and be counted.

It turned out that G and Nate had agreed. They'd met him in the NCIS parking garage. Ambushed him. Sort of. They didn't say much, didn't let Tony start in on his apologies for leaving them on their own while he backed up his team. Callen had stepped out of the shadows at the psychologist's side as if forming from the dark, cold air, his eyes glittering. It had taken a while for Tony to realize that it was a quiet kind of pride that put the spark there.

"Hey, guys. I was just about to call you." Tony had had a speech already prepared. A recommendation about the LA team. A couple of possible choices for team manager to dangle in front of Callen's eyes, pushing and prompting at just the right places so that there would be only one obvious choice. But not now. Tomorrow. After Tony had a chance to sleep. To process. To get his game face back on.

Nate had smiled and slipped the file folders from Tony's hands without skipping a beat. "You have somewhere else to be, Tony. Something else to do right now."

"I do?" Tony hadn't even been angry at the psychologist's meddling. Confused, yes. He'd been confused all right. But after only a few days with Getz, Tony was already trusting the guy. He was smart. Savvy. Had come up with some pretty straight-on analyses of Gibbs' team after a few conversations with Ducky and one stand-off in the bullpen. Painful, but right on the money. And Tony had to respect anyone who could go toe to toe with Ducky in the 'tell me a story' game. Tony hadn't missed a step, just turned towards Callen with the question still on his lips.

"Yeah, Tony. Nate and I will still be here tomorrow. But something tells me you have a small window of opportunity tonight. Now. A chance to get some things out in the open."

Tony had shivered, as if ghostly fingers had brushed along his spine. "Okay, first Ducky and now you guys. Am I dreaming?" He'd reached over and pinched Callen through his jacket.

"Hey! You're supposed to pinch yourself." Callen had smacked his hand away. "I just came from the hospital. There are two people there getting a rude awakening."

'_Two?'_

Tony wandered through the empty spaces of Gibbs' house, half-full bottle held loosely in one hand. Living room. Kitchen. Right there – the Christmas tree would fit right there. Little twinkling lights, rosy and blue and gold in the darkness. Handmade childish ornaments on the lower branches, where shorter arms could reach. Breakable family heirlooms at the top. 'Our First Christmas.' A Marine Corps logo. Something Shannon had saved from her childhood, had wrapped in the same newspaper year after year and nestled safely in a cardboard box. A beaded American flag that Gibbs' mom had made for him. It was too bad that Gibbs had to keep all his memories packed away – that he couldn't ever bring them out, touch them, and let himself remember good days.

Tony looked down at the envelope in his hand. He'd found it – unopened – on Gibbs' kitchen table. Just lying there. 'Boss' printed in big letters. He shook his head. Maybe he should take a page out of Gibbs' book, learn something about putting the past away. Don't spend so much time there. Don't linger over mistakes. Bad decisions. Losses. Sudden changes no one could expect. Or maybe not. Gibbs' losses followed him around, demanding he pay attention, look, see, remember. He wasn't in denial so much as stranded on the wrong side of some barrier. One-way glass. Wanting. Maybe Gibbs couldn't bring out his mementos to hold because touching them would finally break him.

Setting the bottle where the envelope had rested, Tony shoved his hands in his pockets. Time to go. Past time. Who really knew how Gibbs' little talk Ziva had gone? Callen hadn't waited around to check. To see if anything had changed. It was all a little too easy, wasn't it? One FUBAR mission, one disobeyed order, one concussion and suddenly Gibbs saw the light? It might happen that way in the movies, but, considering their past, the ruts and patterns dug in deep between everyone on Team Gibbs, a sudden parting of the clouds to let in bright rays of sunshine seemed … unlikely.

He'd mumbled as much as the two LA agents walked him to his car. Getz had nodded, shooting Tony a smile from his bowed head. "Funny, isn't it?" the psychologist had started. "People are always complaining that movies and television plots are unbelievable. That nothing could happen that way in real life. When, all the time, it's real life that holds the prize for the most unbelievable, improbable stories." He'd shrugged. "Convicted prisoners become inspirational speakers. Addicts get clean and become good fathers. Women forgive their cheating husbands and families reconnect and thrive."

Callen had thrown in his two cents. "A homeless, depressed veteran finds himself welcomed by the family that rejected him. Happy endings," he'd shaken his head, "they happen."

Tony had frowned. "Yeah. We don't get to see too many."

"I think we do," Getz had added quietly. "It's just that the unhappy ones seem to weigh so much more heavily in our memories."

"Unhappy memories," Tony murmured to Gibbs' empty kitchen. He took the now crumpled envelope out of his pocket. Still white. Still unopened.

"We've got our share."

Tony didn't bother looking up. He'd heard the car. Felt the cold air when the front door opened and closed. Gibbs would be taking off his overcoat. Shaking off the snowflakes. Hanging it up on the coatrack beside the door. Tony tilted the paper towards the light from the single lamp overhead. "This was stupid."

"That gift? Or coming here tonight?"

Gibbs moved across the kitchen behind him. Opened the refrigerator. Grabbed a beer out of the six-pack that now held five. Four, counting Gibbs'. The opener hanging from a string on the fridge handle made a clink – psssh – snap as the cap came loose. Hit the trashcan with barely a sound at all.

A smile flashed across Tony's face, but he didn't look up. "Both. Either."

Gibbs came to stand beside him. "Remains to be seen, don't you think?"

Tony braced himself and met the older man's gaze. "Is it time, Gibbs? Time for us to have our 'Hallmark moment?' 'Tis the season, after all." The smile felt wrong. Lopsided. "Are we gonna trade cryptic sentences and shake it all off? Hug and move on?"

The beer bottle caught the light as Gibbs raised it and took a swallow. "Is that what you want? What you came here for?"

Was it? Earlier, sitting at his desk, Tony would have been happy to get even that. Tony and McGee were back to normal. Normal for them, anyway. Ducky was still paying some kind of self-induced penance. Abby was … Abby. Hugs and smothering and pointy elbows and the odd harsh comment you didn't expect. And Ziva, well, he'd leave her to Gibbs.

So, the question remained. What did Tony really want from Gibbs? He stared at the man before him. Crow's feet. Bad haircut. Worn sports coat from Sears. He was favoring that left knee again, listing just a scant quarter of an inch to the right. Great investigator. Semper Fi to the core for his old friends and fellow servicemen. Threw a mean football. Understood woodworking better than he'd ever understand people. Tony blinked and let himself sketch in the face of a husband. A father. A young Marine. A son who left a small town in the dust. A grieving widower. A disciplined sniper. A guy who was taught by Mike Franks to hold onto grudges with both hands and exact his own brand of justice. Old school.

Gibbs didn't want friends. Didn't need partners. He'd stood alone against all comers since his life – his wife and child – had been ripped to shreds. Fine. Tony's fist closed over his ill-thought-out gift. That answered one question. But not another.

If work – his professional life – was all that Tony and Gibbs would ever have between them, Tony would have to make sure he got the next part right. And guessing just didn't seem to work.

"I think the question, Gibbs, is what do _you_ want?"

Grey-streaked eyebrows twitched.

Tony shifted to face him, his hands at his sides. "What would make you happy, Gibbs? What face do you want to see when you come into the bullpen in the morning? A soldier, shoulders back and facing front? Don't speak unless spoken to?" Tony narrowed his eyes. "You told me that once. Spit it right into my face that we were at war and I was to consider myself on the job until you told me otherwise."

The memory shifted darkness across Gibbs' eyes and he raised the beer bottle between them again.

"Do you want a guy who only ever follows orders? Never thinks for himself? Because you don't seem to like that when you get it – when I wait for you to suggest action. But, then again, you don't like it when I use my own judgment either. Talk a waitress into remembering a credit card. Get in close to a suspect. Follow my instincts. Unless it comes up with an answer. Then it's okay."

Tony tilted his head to the side, his own words fueling his frustration. "You have high standards. Some might say impossibly high, especially for me, but," he held up one hand as if to hold off the denial Gibbs wasn't about to open his mouth to make, "that's what I signed up for. Your high standards gave me a goal. Something to live up to. Made me work 24/7 for Jenny when you took off to Mexico trying to live up to the myth of the infallible Gibbs. Made me accept the blame for that crap-fest and work even harder to win back your trust. Made me take the punishment of the afloat assignment and do my freaking best for the servicemen out there."

He took a deep breath and tried to find that spirit of forgiveness that had come over him back in the bullpen. Tried to fit himself back into Team Gibbs without expectations or requirements. He shook his head. It wasn't working.

"Sorry. A little birdie told me that coming here tonight was a good idea. That I needed to do more than attack this problem with a typical Gibbsian grunt and then walk off." Tony rolled his eyes and turned away. "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Pretty sure you were thinking that we needed to talk."

Tony laughed, not bothering to turn around. "And yet here I am doing all the talking. As usual."

The chuckle from behind him was unexpected. "Yeah. Did a lot of talking today – tonight – already."

Turning back, it was Tony's turn to laugh. "So, what, you thought you were over quota? Were going to get fined or something?"

Gibbs lifted both hands. "Stranger things have happened. 'Specially lately."

"I think you've got quite a few syllables banked from over the years, Gibbs. Kind of like vacation days." Tony pointed an accusing finger. "Someone, somewhere in the Vocal HR department is counting and you're liable to get a memo any day now about how you're going to lose them if you don't use them."

Gibbs winced. "Gonna lose something. I think I got that memo earlier this week."

Tony took a half step backward. "And you're actually concerned about that?" Color Tony surprised.

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo. It may not have seemed that way lately, but I wanted you off that ship and back in the bullpen." Gibbs tilted his beer in Tony's direction. "And, before you say it, I know I haven't exactly made that so clear."

Dark laughter burst from Tony's throat, leaving him breathless. He braced himself, one hand on the back of Gibbs' kitchen chair. "Oh, Boss. You are the true master of understatement."

"Gotta be good at something. And it sure as hell isn't gonna be talking."

Tony met Gibbs' eyes. "That's what you've got me for. Right?"

The beer bottle joined Tony's on the table. "More than that. But, yeah, Tony. Your talk and my silence. They kinda do the same things, don't they?"

"You mean annoy the crap out of people?"

Gibbs scratched the side of his neck. "Besides that."

Tony crossed his arms over his chest. "So tell me. Why did you want me back? Me, Tony DiNozzo. The chucklehead who talks too much and plays air guitar and enjoys Christmas movies? Because what you got obviously didn't meet with your expectations."

Gibbs faced him, chin raised. "Guess I can't claim that I was having a bad day. Too many of those going around."

"You got that right." Tony waited. And waited.

Finally, Gibbs seemed to come to the end of whatever inner dialogue was shifting around behind his tired eyes. "Have a seat." He gestured towards the living room.

Tony pulled out a kitchen chair and perched on the end of it. Not going to make the couch mistake again, he reminded himself.

With a sigh, Gibbs slid the other chair out and slumped into it. "These chairs are hell on my spine."

Frowning, Tony leaned back, letting his legs stretch out. "Then why do you keep them? Oh. Never mind." Damn it. Good one. Let's open that can of worms right up.

Gibbs' laughed quietly. "Not everything in this house was Shannon's, Tony. I bought these at a flea market twelve years ago. Just never got around to getting something better."

"Oh."

"Christmas," Gibbs started. "It does weird things to people. Brings out the kid in some of them." He nodded towards Tony, lips slipping into a half-smile. "Depresses others. Family brawls or family reunions. Things buried most other times of the year surface."

Resentments. Jealousy. Old feuds get new fuel. Reminiscences lead to regrets. "True enough." Tony's fingers danced across the table. "That what this is? The Christmas blues?" Chalk it up to Christmas – the holiday blamed for shopping injuries, divorces, and the canned looped muzak that turns normal people into serial killers.

A grimace twisted Gibbs' features. "Some of it. Not all of it. Can't get away that easy." He rubbed at his knee. "I've been screwed up since long before Christmas."

Tony bit back the urge to make excuses for his boss. To let him off the hook. Not this time.

"Hell, maybe it goes all the way back to the explosion and the coma. The memory loss. I'd like to blame my behavior on that. On not remembering." Gibbs watched Tony from open eyes. "Not remembering you. Why I recruited you. How quick you are with a lead, or a new way of thinking. How you shrugged off your partner's betrayal and came to NCIS with a full head of steam, ready for the next case. Always there, at my side, backing me up. Slapping at me with your words if I had my head up my ass. Best young agent I ever worked with."

"Ever since Mexico. Since Jenny. Been doubting myself. My gut." Gibbs shifted his gaze – almost an eye roll. Disgusted with himself. "Going back over every decision, every case, every word. Rehashing them over and over again. Then Vance drops this bomb in my lap." He raised both hands, looking down, as if he could see the ticking clock suspended there. "Wants to use my 'gut' to find a mole. A traitor." He laughed and stared Tony straight in the eye again. "How stupid is that? Even if I was at my best, that kind of thinking is far from smart. And I wasn't at my best, was I?"

Tony frowned, concentrating. Vance was an idiot. Who could possibly believe that was a great idea? And the pressure – God, the pressure that had put on Gibbs. Talk about passing the buck. Vance had chucked the whole thermonuclear warhead onto Gibbs. Feeling a touch on his sleeve, he blinked, coming back to this moment. Here. In Gibbs' kitchen.

"Hey, did you hear me? I said I wasn't at my best. You know why?"

He shook his head. "How could you be? How could he dump all this on you?"

Gibbs' chuckle stole Tony's quick anger. "No, Tony. I wasn't at my best or I would never have accepted Vance's stupid plan. I would have gone over his head. Contacted SecNav or the CNO myself. Put a stop to it. It was too big. Too big for one guy, for me," he cocked his thumb at his chest, "to dig out all the secrets."

True. "So, why did you do it, Boss? Why did you let Vance lead you around by the nose? Send us all away? Put the three biggest suspects onto your team like it was some kind of old mystery novel?"

"Ego. Oh, yeah, DiNozzo, don't underestimate my ego. That was definitely a part of it. That and shock." Gibbs rubbed the back of his head like he was expecting a head-slap. "We were all reeling from Jenny's death. Grieving. In shock. Getting by on fumes and coffee and revenge."

"And in stepped Vance with his toothpick and he tore us all apart." Tony could still feel the man's words like a knife in his heart. Cold dark eyes and bitterness had sent Tony away like a bad little boy. Guilt had done the rest.

"Don't just blame Vance. The man's a bastard, but so am I."

Gibbs' hands were on the table now, clutching tight to each other. Fighting himself to get the words out of a throat that hadn't said this much in … years, if Tony was any judge.

"I did nothing. Stood there. Didn't say a word in your defense. Or McGee's or Ziva's. Just let it all happen." Another smile slipped out. "Ducky had a field day with me when he found out. Laid into me something awful – me and Vance. Talked about mandatory grief counseling and bereavement leave. He was supremely pissed that Vance had sent you off, beyond the reach of friends. Of family."

Tony looked away. "No family to speak of-"

"Yeah you do. DiNozzo. You've got family. Right here." He waited until Tony finally looked at him. "Right here. Just 'cause I'm a bastard doesn't mean I don't care."

Blinking, Tony tried to parse that sentence into English. "Sorry, Gibbs, I'm not following."

"I mean, yes, I wanted you back, Tony. Back from the damned ship. Back in your chair. Talking. Playing games. And telling me off when you need to. You. Not any soldier or cardboard cut-out." His words came quicker now. Sharp and clear. "The guy who I dragged here from Baltimore. Who worked beside me for years. Who wears the mask of a frat boy, a skirt-chaser, and is a damn good agent underneath. That guy. That's who I want."

Tony waited for the punchline. The 'sorry, McGee, he's alive' comment. The 'I want you until I don't.' The kiss-off that always came at the end of a Gibbsian compliment.

Tired blue eyes bored into him. Held him. Did not let go.

"You hear me, Tony?"

"Yeah, Boss, I hear you." Familiar sentiments surrounded by blue lights.

"And?"

Tony leaned forward, slow and steady, urging Gibbs to do the same. "And?" he whispered. "I'm – are you sure you're done? Not going to call me Spanky? Or tell me how high your boot is going to be up my ass?"

Gibbs lifted one hand, just as slow and steady, and Tony braced himself for the head-slap. Instead, Gibbs curled his hand around the back of Tony's neck and held him there, just a few inches from his face. "I'm only done if you're going to come back. Finish your recommendations for the OSP, do right by Callen and his team, and then come back and let your team do right by you." His fingers squeezed. "If you're still not sure, I can do some more talking. But I'm not taking it back. Not adding anything but an apology. I'm sorry, Tony. Hope you'll forgive me."

Warmth spread from that scarred, callused hand and into Tony's soul. "An apology? I thought that was only for friends?" He wanted to take back the words as soon as they slipped out. Gibbs had said enough, far more than Tony could ever hope for. What the hell was he doing asking for even more? He opened his mouth, but Gibbs was smiling, his other hand raised to chuck Tony under the chin.

"We're friends, Tony. And you're always welcome here. No matter how much of a bastard I'm acting like at the moment."

"Okay."

"Okay? You sure?"

Tony nodded, speechless for once.

"Does that mean I can have my Christmas present back?" Gibbs let go and held out one hand.

The envelope was balled up in Tony's pocket. Heavy as lead. He reached for it, flattened it between both hands, trying to press out the wrinkles. "Uh – well – it's still good. Just a voucher I printed up on my computer. Thought –" he stared at the sorry looking thing, "thought you might want to come with me. To Atlanta. The College Football Hall of Fame. They're, uh, in the spring they'll be-"

Gibbs snatched the envelope from his hands and tore it open, unfolding the piece of paper within. "Finally inducting you, huh? It's about damned time. Your tenth year of being out of college ball ended nineteen months ago. Thought those morons would never wise up."

Of course. Tony smiled, laughed when Gibbs finally raised his eyes. Pride. Yeah. That felt good. It really was a wonderful life.


	12. by the light

Chapter Twelve

"_You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you." ~ __Walt Disney__  
_

Tony found himself checking his reflection in the elevator doors, again. Heading up to the top floor. To Vance's office. Head twisting side to side, he evaluated his hair, his collar, the knot in his tie. He looked good. Fine. Few signs of wear and tear showed on the outside. Maybe he was a little more relaxed. A little less on a hair-trigger. This time he knew he'd done his best. Had come up with the right answer for Callen and his team. This time, Tony wasn't asking for a favor, begging for the TAD, or a temporary transfer. He wasn't fighting a swamp of doubt, watching and waiting for a chance to prove himself. Again. This time, there were people standing at his back, ready to support him – he could almost make out their silhouettes behind him in the empty elevator. Gibbs and McGee. He tilted his head. Two out of three wasn't bad.

Callen and Getz had taken the red eye home three days ago after a call from Sam Hanna. His case – a simple case, he'd insisted barely a week ago – had turned into a quagmire of mistaken identity and foreign agents. It had taken Callen less than a minute to make the decision to return and to put off the decision about a new manager of the OSP for another day. Tony nodded to himself, twitching a fold of his coat into place. G hadn't really wanted to make that decision – he hadn't been ready. Tony and Getz had shared an unspoken dialogue in the front seat of the car on the way to the airport. A head-shake. A frown. An empathetic nod. It would be better this way.

Now, it would be Tony's recommendation to Vance. Special investigator to director. And when the decision finally came down – and it would – it would be from the director's office. Callen – and Hanna and Getz and Blye – could distance themselves. Blame the chain of command. Eliminate any in-fighting or resentment aimed at Callen or Getz for their 'suggestions.' It wouldn't be like Gibbs' reluctant, half-assed acceptance of Tony as his "you'll-do" replacement when he jetted off to Mexico, leaving the team unconvinced – dubious of Tony's leadership. It couldn't be. As long as Tony could help it, he'd never leave a team lead – temporary or otherwise – in that position. And if Gibbs had been in his right mind, he wouldn't have either.

Yeah. Tony could say that, now. And mostly believe it, too.

Over the past few days, Tony and Gibbs had actually talked. For more than 30 seconds. On more than one occasion. It defied the laws of physics and kind of, sometimes, made Tony wonder if he was the one in the coma this time. But, over beers, or cowboy steaks, or a short phone call, Gibbs was making Tony a believer. In the team. In their partnership. In the surety of change – change for the better. It wouldn't be perfect, Gibbs' newfound trust. Tony thought he was ready to see it crumble in the face of their first hard-hitting case. Death of a child. A soldier betrayed. Or, more likely, Vance's insistence that whatever his next tangled web hoped to achieve, Tony was not to be included in the planning. But, Tony nodded at his reflection, the camaraderie sure felt nice for the moment.

His Boss had explained the rude awakening he'd given to Ziva. Empowered Tony to read her the riot act if she came up with one more excuse not to follow his direction. Said it right out there in the bullpen, in front of God and everyone. Gibbs had reinforced the much rusted chain of command on Team Gibbs, right in front of McGee and Ziva and Vance. Tony's smile dimmed as he remembered the Mossad agent's bowed head, the way her folded hands lay much too quietly on her desk. McGee's eyebrows had almost disappeared over the top of his head when she'd murmured an apology – and then again, when Tony accepted it with one word and got on with his job.

Because words – well, words could do a lot of things. They could wound. They could burn like fire. They could reach out like an offered hand from a friend. They could connect to the back of the head like a cannonball, or, like a sharp reminder that you were not alone. But words did not contain miracles. They didn't send you back in time for a do-over, removing all the hurt and doubt and anger that took up residence in your soul.

For now, though, Tony had to admit to himself that Gibbs' words felt pretty damn good.

Last night it had been Tony, Stan, and Ducky leaning around Stan's kitchen table putting the finishing touches on his report. His recommendations. He'd thought about inviting Gibbs along. In fact, he'd done nothing but think about it since he'd driven Getz and Callen to the airport. In the end, he'd decided against it. Gibbs might have had some insights, some suggestions, but this had been Tony's idea, and he'd convinced the CNO and the Undersecretary that he could handle it, and insisted on the same to Vance. Drawing Gibbs in felt like a step backwards. Felt like he was admitting that little Tony DiNozzo really couldn't be expected to succeed on his own. That he needed his Boss to hold his hand.

Last night had been about success. Independence. Completion. Tony had done his best for the LA team – for NCIS, and had been accepted as an equal by his LA colleagues. This morning, stumbling out of bed for a run in eighteen degree air that bit and clawed at his lungs, downing a bowl of cold cereal and a lukewarm cup of coffee standing barefoot in his kitchen, the warmth, the camaraderie was gone. Tony's TAD was over. His respite from normalcy, from the day in and day out of the NCIS bullpen – Gibbs' bullpen – was finished. Today he would face his friends, his teammates, and those who liked to peer over the ugly orange dividers into the world of Team Gibbs. Same old Tony DiNozzo. Same old expectations. Same old song and dance.

It had still been dark when he'd left his condo. The kind of cold, winter day that promised neither a crisp blue sky nor fat white flakes. No, this was mid-January, the start of the doldrums of winter, where you rarely saw the light of day unless you were working a case. You left for work in the pre-dawn, and came home long after sundown, even the low, grey DC sky something from a memory. Today's forecast fit Tony's mood perfectly: sleet and freezing rain that slid down between your coat and your shirt. Black ice on the roads. The wind off the river cutting through to the skin no matter how many layers you put on. Tony shivered. The steel-cold sky matched what he knew he'd see in Vance's eyes.

The drive to work felt like the long walk to the guillotine.

Because Vance was the doorkeeper. The guard at the gate. The executioner, the gleam in his eye making it clear that the prisoner's death was going to be neither fast nor painless. Vance would be dead-set against Tony's peaceful return to NCIS. To an NCIS where a certain very special agent was welcomed and respected. Vance had the power to make Tony's return a nightmare or a non-event. It could be as easy as a few words about his final report and recommendations or the man could use this as yet another excuse to get in a few hits below the belt. Gee, Tony wondered, head cocked to one side, wonder which strategy Vance was likely to choose.

The doors slid open on the bullpen level and Tony backed up, startled, as two figures all but leaped inside.

"Palmer? Ab-" The Goth's full-frontal hug slammed the air from Tony's lungs as his back became close friends with the elevator wall.

"Tony! We wanted to surprise you!"

Abby's breath was hot against his cheek, her voice just the other side of deafening that close to his ear. Tony held her tight, suddenly uncaring of the line of his suit or the crease in his pants, warmth seeping back into his limbs. He pressed his cheek to hers, staring over her shoulder into Jimmy's blue eyes.

"Hi."

"Hi." Jimmy grinned. "Thought we'd bring you a little sunshine before you brave the lion in its den."

Abby backed off a few inches and threw a glare over her shoulder. "What I said was, why don't we ambush Tony and make sure that little black rain cloud doesn't follow him all the way up to the director's office." She squinted back at him. "Yep. Thought so."

Tony held on for just another moment. "Thought what, Abbs?"

She touched one black-painted fingernail to a spot right between Tony's eyebrows. "You're thinking dark thoughts. Your brow chakra is all muddled." She shook her head, ponytails flying. "We can't let you meet with Vance with a muddled chakra, Tony!"

"The Dalai Lama forbid!" Tony's eyes opened wider as the finger tapped a drumbeat against his skin. "You trying to drill inside there, maybe do some cleaning? Did you bring your special body fluid cleanser, Gremlin?"

"Hey, this is important, Mister!" Abby stopped the tapping and pointed her finger at him, instead. "The brow chakra is the seat of reasoning. It helps us perceive the world around us with clarity – and, most importantly, it helps us see ourselves and our place in the whole universe." Her hands spread to sketch in her boundless imagination. "You're going to need a balanced brow chakra to take on Vance."

Tony blinked, mouth shut tight so that no more inadvertent questions came popping out. He didn't dare look away from Abby's glare to meet Jimmy's eyes, to beg for help, so he tried crooking one finger behind her back. Just a tiny little gesture. _Come on, Jimmy, work with me_, he thought in the autopsy gremlin's direction.

"Oh." Palmer took a step closer, leaning in way too close to focus on that invisible target Abby had painted on Tony's face. "How does one go about cleansing a chakra, Abby?"

"Well, some people would place an indigo crystal there, hang in on a chain so that it presses against the energy center there."

Tony's eyes might have widened slightly at the thought. Head jewelry. Very becoming.

Jimmy forced a chuckle. "Hmm. I don't think Tony's meeting with Director Vance is really the place to try out that new style, do you?"

"No." Abby frowned. "Plus, crystals don't work, anyway. I've tested them fairly extensively."

"So, what do you suggest?"

Why did Tony feel like a lab animal caged by two ethical yet definitely nutty scientists?

"We could use Gibbs' trick, shut down the elevator, use guided meditation and with a visual device like a colored flower, dark blue for this one, lead Tony through the steps to open the chakra to full bloom, and then have him draw up white earth energy and stream it through the node until the resulting light is clear and clean. It might take a while, and it all depends on how flexible he is, you know, sitting in lotus here with us, and how resilient that suit is going to be what with the wrinkles, and whether or not we reach the correct level of focus with all of the alarms and buzzes and whines –"

"Abby!"

She stopped all of her gesticulating and poking and prodding and turned back to Tony. "But, I was going to say, we don't really have time for that."

"No, I suppose not," Jimmy nodded, lips pressed firmly together in sincerity.

Or maybe because he was fighting a grin. Not too successfully. Tony glared.

"So, what is your solution, Oh Mystic Abby, Earth Goddess?" Tony pretended seriousness.

She nodded. Decision made. Brilliance reined. "Group hug."

Tony couldn't help the laugh that erupted from his gut as Abby and Jimmy, in perfectly rehearsed choreography, latched onto him from both sides. Warmth enveloped him. Held him. Reminded him of friends and love and support. And if he had to close his eyes for a moment it was simply to cherish the moment and had nothing to do with the tears that threatened to ruin his control.

It was just what he needed.

And when the elevator opened on the upper level and the bell rang, Tony was ready to earn his wings.

ooOOoo

Vance. Steel-eyed and silent, the director hadn't bothered to rise from his desk when his secretary ushered Tony inside. He just reached out one hand for the NCIS:LA file and started reading. Tony sat, legs crossed at the knee, hands quiet in his lap, and stared out the window at the dim winter sunlight, still reveling in warmth in his chest that belied the weather – inside and out. The icy temperature given off by the man behind the desk couldn't seem to touch him.

Vance had read Tony's recommendations through twice before he pulled out a pen and started making notes in the margins. Shaking his head. Frowning. Every once in a while he'd glare across the desk at Tony, sending hard to miss messages about his disappointment, his disgust, or his disapproval. Tony wondered if he disapproved of his conclusions, his grammar, his style of bullet points and margin sizes, or just the guy whose name was scrawled at the bottom. He'd tick the 'all of the above' box without hesitation.

Twenty-five minutes after Tony walked in, Vance appeared to be finished. Rousing himself from his warm daze, Tony straightened as the director closed the file and pushed it to one side. _Let 'er rip_. He let his expression say it for him.

"Interesting recommendations."

"Sir." Tony could be just as vague and noncommittal as the next guy.

Vance took another minute or so to unwrap a new toothpick and place it in his mouth. "I can't say that I completely agree with your findings."

_No kidding._

Leaning backwards in his chair, Vance swept one hand across the folder. "I vetted Agent Macy extensively before assigning her to lead the OSP. She hasn't failed in any measurable way – in fact, her reports and the case reports of that office have nothing but positive things to say about her leadership."

"You, yourself championed Special Agent Macy to lead the OSP, isn't that right, Director?" Let's just get this all out into the open, Tony told himself. He leaned in. "On paper, she seems right. And, you're right, the case summaries back that up. But," Tony moved his hands together and apart in a stage magician's 'presto' gesture, "it's not so much what the agents' reports say as what they don't say." He felt a smile twitch across his mouth. "What's left out. When you have as much experience writing up case reports for an extremely exacting lead agent as I do, you learn that leaving out certain non-critical aspects of the teamwork on any particular case is more an art than a science. You notice the careful phrasing. The roundabout ways of putting things." He let the smile grow. "It's hard to pick up on if you're not looking for it."

Tony could see Vance's anger swell as he continued. He watched the tic in the corner of the man's eye, the way his hands tightened on the edge of his desk. Resentment sharpened his gaze to an ice pick, but Tony met it with an evenness he didn't realize he could muster. "The case reports are Callen's work. Obviously. He's like me. He takes his fellow agents' reports and tweaks a bit here, adjusts a bit there, and then comes up with the case summary that's submitted into the official record." He shrugged off the hatred coming at him across the desk. "Most directors or reviewers stop at the case summary. The bullet points, if you will." And how Vance loved his bullet point summaries. "You have to dig deeper to find the truth. It's a challenge – takes time – but it's worth it in the long run."

Before Vance could snap, Tony rose and meandered slowly around his office. "My method, for what it's worth, has always been to go for the details. To put the summaries and conclusions aside until I can sink my teeth into the individual reports, learn the way each agent sees things, how he or she interacts with the team both on paper and out in the real world." He touched a crystal decanter on the sideboard and then flicked it with one nail, letting the deep tone ring out in the silence. "I learned a lot about McGee, for instance, after we'd worked with him in Norfolk on a case. Requested copies of his reports, transcripts of his interviews. I knew that he considered himself an expert in some areas and a novice in others and that the differences bothered him."

Tony moved to slip behind the conference table, adjusting the angle of the chair, brushing off a few tufts of lint he found there. "With Kate and Ziva it was tougher. Their case files, if you will, weren't something I could get my hands on. Especially not Ziva's. So it took me longer to adjust. To get inside their heads and understand how they approached their roles here." He grimaced, lips twisting to one side. "I wish I'd had more time with Kate. And Ziva? I'm not sure I'll ever fully grasp the way Mossad's twisted her up."

"We're not talking about your team, Agent DiNozzo, in case that has escaped your notice." Vance slammed his chair backwards and rose, prowling towards him. "I have no idea why you think I'd be interested in the DiNozzo method of study. I thought I made myself clear about my feelings in regards to-"

Tony interrupted smoothly. "That's just it, Director. Feelings. Your feelings in particular. They have nothing to do with this. With the OSP. With Lara Macy. With Callen or Getz or Blye. And they should have absolutely nothing to do with Gibbs or Ziva or Tim. Or me. Facts. McGenius would call it data. That's all we should be discussing. And," he'd been moving forward while he talked until all that separated him from Vance's fury was a few inches of empty space, "facts are all you need to see the truth."

"What truth, DiNozzo?" Vance spat.

"The truth is that Lara Macy was the wrong fit for managing the OSP from day one. Just like Jenny Sheppard was absolutely the wrong fit for Director of NCIS.

Vance's smile was dark and twisted, his eyes glittering with arrogance. "That was not my decision."

"Noooo," Tony drawled, "as I was trying to say, Director, this has nothing to do with you. Or me. It has to do with facts. Facts outside of politics or personal agendas. Whoever chose Jenny as the first female director of an armed government agency cared more about that "first" than they did about choosing the right person. If you read through her reports – which I did far too late for my own good – you'd see it. I think. If you actually looked."

"You are skating very very close to the edge of insubordination, DiNozzo."

"The edge, Director? I've seen it. Felt it. Got kicked over it and out to sea. Before that when I was told to suck it up and sleep with the girl so that I could complete my director's unsanctioned mission." He laughed. "It's only when I forget, when I get too comfortable, when I stop looking that the edge sneaks up on me. When I don't do my homework, check all my facts, and read between the lines. Then that edge will sneak up on me. Get all tangled up with my feet and knock me on my ass." He stepped into Vance's space and shoved one finger into his chest. "You've been there. Toes on the edge, looking down into the abyss. And that's why you hate me, isn't it? Because, while the Granouille affair was my failure the OSP is yours. And when you look at me you can see how easy it is for someone higher up to flick his fingers and send you flying."

"Back off, DiNozzo," Vance growled, leaning into Tony's finger. "Back off and listen for a change."

"Oh, I listen. I watch. And I wait." Tony let the cold anger drain away until the smile he offered Vance was an honest one. "And I do my homework. Your kick in the nuts has forever cured me of my stupidity in that regard, so I have to thank you for that." He stepped backwards. "Consider this as a repayment of that debt. Do you damned homework, Director. Read more than the bullet points. Get to know your leads, your agents, the people you trust with the lives of teammates, soldiers, and sailors. Read Lara Macy's file again, and all of the OSP agents' reports. And then tell me why Hetty Lange isn't the right person for the job."

He turned his back, gathering his coat from the chair in front of him. Facing away from the seething man at his back, Tony lifted his chin. "My recommendations have already been sent ahead to SecNav and copied to the Chief of Naval Operations and the Undersecretary. They might be interested in your comments. Sir." Yeah, he didn't really mean it, but Vance had to know that.

"I had assumed we would meet with the LA team before your official recommendations were posted."

Tony heard the effort Vance was making to control himself. He glanced back, polished and professional to the core. "'Never assume. Always recheck.' It's not my rule, but it's a good one. You should try it." Tony took a deep breath and made another decision. He'd never win Vance's trust, he knew that. He'd never be the agent Vance backed, stood up for. His career was done as long as Vance sat in that chair. The thing was, NCIS wasn't about Tony's career. Or his precious feelings. It was about doing the right thing for the real heroes putting it out there on the line like Tony would never do.

And there were far worse people than Vance that could be – had been – in charge.

He turned to face the man behind the desk. "My TAD is over, Director. Thank you for approving the assignment. I look forward to rejoining my team and getting back to work." He held out his hand across the desk.

Vance stared at it, chewing and chewing on that toothpick, his dark eyes flicking back and forth between Tony's hand and his face. Finally, he reached back and grasped Tony's peace offering. "I have no idea why, but I'm going to re-read your report, Agent DiNozzo. And the LA team's case files."

"Thank you." Tony headed for the door. One hand on the handle and he just couldn't resist turning back for one more try. "And my file, sir?"

"Don't push it," Vance snapped.

_**A/N: Your reviews, comments, favorites and follows have been wonderful! Just an epilogue to go.**_


	13. of the moon

Author's Notes at the end.

Chapter Thirteen

"_Remember, George, no man is a failure who has friends." – It's a Wonderful Life_

"No, that is not what I said. I said that Petty Officer Reynolds could not have known that his team had already pursued their own agenda in avenging his platoon commander's harsh treatment because he was on medical leave, at a … a … Restoration Facility."

"Sure, and there's no way he could possibly have any contact with the outside world in a _Rehab_ Facility – geez, Ziva, how long have you lived here? Like a cell phone or email, could he? Reynolds is a Navy Seal! He could have been masterminding the entire thing from a hospital bed."

Tony watched the two come out from behind their desks to spit and snarl at each other in the middle of the bullpen. "In this corner," he murmured to himself, his steps quickening even as his spirits lifted. Team Gibbs. Biting, snarling, one-upmanship one minute, defend your teammate with your life the next. Ziva was lost in translation and McGee was tech-geeking it like a boss. Which reminded him – he paused on the staircase, gaze flicking towards all the usual hiding places. Where exactly was his Boss?

"You just gonna stand up here all day, DiNozzo, or do you plan on getting to work?"

The warm presence at his back had Tony turning before Gibbs managed more than a couple of words. Smile in place, Tony leaned against the slim railing, unconsciously mirroring Gibbs' stance. "The puppies are fighting again, Dad. Want me to get out the hose?"

The smell of dark roast coffee trickled down the stairs as Gibbs sipped. "Nah. Let 'em get it out. I'd rather them fight here, about a case, than have it come out in the field." Another sip. "You get the file I sent you?"

Tony nodded. "Navy SEAL platoon at each other's throats after a 'training accident' that left Petty Officer Reynolds in the hospital. Everybody's pretty tight-lipped about the cause, of course."

"They're SEALs," Gibbs stated the obvious.

"But when the platoon commander winds up beaten nearly to death a week later, you've gotta wonder. Especially since he's not talking. Not interested in pressing charges."

"Closing ranks."

Tony had missed this. Missed the team vibe. The way he and Gibbs could – sometimes – think with one brain. He shifted his weight to look up the stairs at his Boss. "So is this a quick check, a reminder that grown up sailors don't act this way, and then let them clean it up themselves, or is it a true investigation?"

"Good question." Gibbs nodded towards the still bickering teammates in the bullpen, who had been joined by Ducky and his crisp, clear Scottish tones. "Check out any actual evidence those two have, talk to Ducky. I'm gonna head upstairs and get the answer to that question from Vance."

Hm. Tony squinted at Gibbs' bitter tone. At the tightness of his boss's jaw, the dark threat behind his eyes. "That's all you're gonna do, right? Because, thanks and everything, but I don't need anyone to fight my battles. Not even you."

Gibbs seemed to give up on staring at his agents down below and turned to meet Tony's eyes. "Doesn't mean you shouldn't have back-up. You're a big boy – hell, I'm a big boy. But this isn't going to be skirmish with Vance. I know that guy." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "And this is liable to turn into the winter campaign in Russia if you don't call in the allies."

"Death by attrition." Tony shivered. "Yeah, that won't be fun."

Gibbs laid a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Get down there. Somebody needs to have their heads smacked together." One finger in front of Tony's face shut down his immediate grin. "Not literally."

Tony waited.

"Not until I can watch, anyway."

Laughing, Tony set off down the steps. "Whatever you say, Boss."

"Hey."

He turned, surprised.

"Good to have you back."

Yeah. Tony's grin faded, but the warmth in his gut still quietly burned. "Me, too, Boss."

ooOOooOO

Gibbs stood just inside the office, watching Vance frowning over what must be Tony's recommendations about LA. Papers had been taken from the folder and were set in messy piles, post-its bearing Vance's scrawl stuck here and there. It wasn't Vance's usual tucked-in style. His normal steely focus and nit-picky organization. His tie sat crooked against his collar; suit coat abandoned over the back of a chair. This was a man in chaos.

Gibbs had followed the man's secretary into the office. She'd been carrying an armload of case files tagged with the blue borders of the OSP. She dropped them on the edge of Vance's desk and hurried away, smiling at Gibbs as he held the door for her. Vance hadn't moved.

"I don't remember an appointment, Agent Gibbs."

A slight shrug, a grimace, and Gibbs stepped forward. "Just checking in. Thought you might have a question for me."

Vance's head jerked up, dark eyes cold. "About what? DiNozzo's assignment?" He took a deep breath and stood, back straight, fingertips spread on the dog-eared papers as if he was afraid they'd get away from him. "Oh, I think he made himself very clear."

Gibbs smiled. "Good. Being clear. It's important."

"Uh-huh."

"Let me be clear, Director. Your little speech about DiNozzo's transfer not being a punishment?" Gibbs stayed relaxed, shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets. "Didn't believe it then – don't believe it now. But, if you have the urge to not punish him again, things will get real clear real fast."

"I've had just about enough threats from your team today, Agent Gibbs."

"I didn't make any threats – and I'll bet DiNozzo didn't either." He shook his head, mouth quirking up. "'Strange, isn't it? Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?'" Gibbs snorted a laugh. DiNozzo had him quoting movies now. "If you'd left my team together, we might have been able to sniff out Lee and save the lives of two good men. DiNozzo worked with her for months while I was … gone. Got to know her. And, God knows, I'm not the omnipotent Superman Abby thinks I am." He tilted his head. "If you hadn't decided to try to make a quick name for yourself here in DC by pulling all the strings – strings you had no idea where they led - well, I guess we'll never know."

"I guess not."

"But, there's something I do know, Director." Gibbs couldn't quite keep the scorn from his voice when he spoke that word. "Recognizing your mistakes? Yeah, that's not a sign of weakness. It's a sign of intelligence. A sign that you're smarter today then you were yesterday." Gibbs pointed at himself. "And I should know."

Vance swallowed. Lifted his chin. "Are you finished?"

Oh, not by a long shot, Gibbs thought to himself. He nodded towards the files beneath Vance's trembling hands. "DiNozzo has skills. And friends. Something to remember." He lifted his gaze to meet Vance's, holding him there. "And I'm one of them."

He turned quickly to the door, coat flapping. "Glad you see you've moved past bullet points. Might do you some good."

ooOOooOO

"Okay, team, time to break up the fisticuffs and pretend we work for a living." Tony swept into the bullpen and behind his desk, laying his coat neatly over the credenza. He rubbed his hands together and then placed them squarely on the back of his desk chair. He frowned, head cocked to the side, fingers testing the pleather cushioning, squeezing, searching for … "Hey! Who fixed the big," he made a ripping sound in his throat, "you know, the hole," he leaned down, squinting. "Is this a new chair? I liked my old chair –"

"Tony."

"I mean, thanks and all, but I know how penny-pinching the Facilities Resources people are, and I don't want them taking the cost of a chair out of my pay –"

"Tony."

He plunked down, testing the feel, twisting back and forth and back and forth. Adjusting the seat. "Hmm. It's pretty good, don't get me wrong-"

"Anthony."

Leaning far over the side, Tony peered at the rollers on the bottom. "And that one wheel on my old one kept sticking. Dog-legging me to the left. My knee has the bruises to prove it."

"_Very Special Agent DiNozzo!"_

Tony looked up and smiled at the three people standing in a tight arc on the other side of his desk. At the raised eyebrows from across the sea of bilious orange dividers. The answering grins. The heads shaking in amusement.

"It's good to be home, guys."

"We're glad you feel that way, Tony." McGee was holding something behind his back and not quite holding in a tiny little Timmy-smile. "Because we are, too. And we have something for you. Just to remind you, in case you forget, of where your home is."

"Here." Ziva continued. "In this desk. Where we can keep an eye on you. And you can eye us up as well."

The almost-right phrasing with just a hint of inappropriateness made Tony's grin widen. Ah, normalcy. How he'd missed it. He 'eyed up' Ziva, head to toe, and decided the stick up her … inappropriate body part … might have worked its way loose since his last visit. He'd take it.

"Timothy?" Ducky, a gentleman down to his toes, gestured with one hand for McGee to begin.

"Something tells me I'd take this better on my feet," Tony murmured, setting thought to action. "Lay on, McGee."

From behind his back, McGee drew a cardboard box bearing the logo of Tony's favorite donut shop. "Bread," he announced. "That this house, err, desk, would never know hunger."

Tony's mouth dropped open.

"Salt." Ziva set a silver-hued box labeled Godiva's Salted Caramel Truffles in the center of his desk. "That life may always have flavor." She met Tony's eyes with a rare, honest smile.

"And," Ducky made a show of presenting the squat red bottle, "wine. That joy and prosperity may reign forever." He leaned closer, turning the label towards the light. "It is a bottle of my favorite Porto, my dear boy. I hope you'll enjoy it."

"Guys." Tony had no idea what to say. He let his hand linger on each gift, setting his heart to remember this moment. They'd gone to a lot of trouble. Quoting his favorite movie. The presents. No matter what happened, no matter who said what or what the future might bring, this was, it was … "I don't – this is awesome." His smile couldn't be wider. "Thanks."

"Just don't tell us it's a wonderful life," McGee whispered. "Please." He pretended to glance around fearfully. "People are listening."

Gibbs breezed down the steps and around the corner right on cue. "Nope. No group hugs, either. Time to get to work."

Ziva and Tim headed back to their desks, Ducky to the elevator. Gibbs paused by Tony's desk, checking out the three offerings. He met Tony's eyes for a moment before striding towards his own desk. "You wouldn't like LA anyway, DiNozzo."

"Why not, Boss? Pretty ladies. Beaches." Tony flipped open the donut box and checked out the selection. "Could work on my tan."

The continued silence drew Tony's eyes up and across the bullpen. McGee was rigid, mouth open, staring at Tony as if he'd dropped the F-bomb in the middle of a nun bowling trip. Ziva was caught, half up, half down, frowning across the aisle. Tony's eyebrows rose and they, all three, turned as one to meet Gibbs' clear blue gaze. The older man shook his head. "Nah. No snow."

Pursing his lips, Tony pretended to think about it for another moment. "You know me so well, Boss," he grinned.

Gibbs' nod was an acknowledgment and a promise. And the sigh of relief heard from all around the office sure felt good, too.

"Petty Officer Reynolds," the MCRT lead snapped, walking towards the plasma. "Whattya got?

_**A/N: I am very blessed by the reaction to this story – the many favorites and follows, and the wonderful reviews. Thank you all for your patience and interest – and you're great insights! Hope to play in Tony's World again soon.**_


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